,D' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/I  Jl  CA  i/> crv^    V Vv>wc-\ 


r\ 


V 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


SAMUEL   ROGERS. 


WITH 


A  MEMOIR  OF  HIS  LIFE. 


NEW   YORK: 

JOHN     B.     ALDEN,     PUBLISHER, 
1883. 


CONTENTS 


Memoie  of  Samuel  Eogers  . 

Italy: — Paex  I. 

I.  TLe  Lake  of  Geneva  . 
II.  The  Great  St.  Bernard 

III.  The  Descent    . 

IV.  Jorasse 
V.  Marguerite  de  Tours  . 

VI.  The  Alps  . 
VII.  Como   . 
VIII.  Bergamo    . 
IX.  Italy    . 
X.  Ooll'alto     . 
XI.  Venice 
XII.  Luigi 

XIII.  St.  Mark's  Place 

XIV.  The  Gondola 
XV.  The  Brides  of  Venice 

XVI.  Foscari       . 
XVII.  Arqua 
XVIII.  Ginevra     . 
XIX.  Bologna 
XX.  Florence    . 
XXL  Don  Garzia     . 
XXII.  The  Campagna  of  Florence 
Italy  : — Paet  II. 

I.  The  Pilgrim    . 

II.  An  Interview        .  , 

in.  Rome  . 
IV   A  Funeiiu 

V.  National  Prejudices    . 
VI.  The  Campagna  of  Rome  . 
YII.  The  Roman  Pontiffa  . 
VIII.  Caius  Cestius 
IX.  The  Nun 

X.  The  Fire-fly 


901107 


AS! 

5 

11 

15 

19 

20 

24 

26 

28 

31 

34 

35 

38 

43 

45 

51 

55 

59 

67 

69 

73 

77 

80. 

82 

94 
97 
100 
106 
109 
112 
116 
117 
118 
120 


4 

CONTENTS 

XL 

Foreign  Travel 

XII. 

The  Fountain 

XIII. 

Banditti 

XIV. 

An  Adventure 

XV. 

Naples 

XVI. 

The  Bag  of  Gold  . 

XVII. 

A  Character   . 

XVIII. 

Sorrento    .... 

XIX. 

Pcestum 

XX. 

Monte  Cassino       .            o            « 

XXI. 

The  Harper     . 

XXII. 

TheFeluca            .        ,     . 

XXIII. 

Genoa 

A  Farewell 

Notes  and  Illustrations  to  '*  Italy  " 

Human  Life           .... 

An  Epistle  to  a  Feiend 

JACQUELINE                  .... 

Miscellaneous  Poems  : 

The  Sailor 

Written  at  Midniglit,  1786      . 

To  Two  Sisters       . 

To  an  Old  Oak 

From  Euripides      . 

To  a  Voice  that  had  been  Lost 

On  a  Tear  .... 

On Asleep 

The  Boy  of  Egremond 

A  Character    . 

To  a  Fjriend  on  his  Marriage 

A  Wish 

To              .... 

Captivity         .... 

A  Farewell 

To  the  Fragment  of  a  Statue  of  Hercules 

Italian  Song 

From  a  Greek  Epigram 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  etc 

To  the  Butterfly 

Inscription  for  a  Temple   . 

Written  in  Westminster  Abbey 

To .... 

The  Ali)s  by  Day-break 

An  Inscription 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory 


MEMOIU   or    SAMUEI    ROGERS. 


There  seems  to  be  something  so  repugnant  to  the  pui  suits 
Df  literature  in  habits  of  trade  and  commerce,  that  the  instances 
have  been  very  rare  in  which  they  have  been  combined  in  one 
individual.  The  historian  of  the  Medici,  and  Rogers  the  Poet, 
are  almost  solitary  instances  of  literary  taste  and  talent  being 
united  harmoniously  with  traffic.  Samuel  Rogers  is  a  banker  in 
London,  and  has  been  for  many  years  at  the  head  of  a  most  re- 
spectable firm.  His  father  followed  the  same  business  before 
him,  and  amassed  considerable  wealth,  both  which  became  the 
heritage  of  the  Poet,  who  was  born  about  the  year  1762,  in  Lon- 
don ;  but  little  or  nothing  is  known  of  the  way  in  which  he  passed 
his  early  years.  His  education  was  liberal,  no  cost  having  been 
spai-ed  to  render  him  an  accomplished  scholar.  That  he  improved 
by  thought  and  reflection  upon  the  lessons  of  his  youth,  there 
can  be  no  doubt ;  and,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  he  lost  no  opportu- 
nity of  reaping  profit  from  the  extraordinary  advantages  which 
his  station  obtained  for  him.  He  always  kept  the  best  society, 
both  as  respected  rank  and  talent,  the  circle  of  which  in  the  me- 
tropolis of  England  in  his  younger  days  was  more  than  commonly 
brilliant.  His  political  ideas  are  what  are  styled  Uberal,  and  no 
one  has  ever  been  able  to  reproach  him  with  the  abandonment 
of  a  single  principle  with  which  he  originally  set  out  in  life.  Over 
most  of  his  early  friends  and  companions  the  grave  has  now  closed, 
and  they  included  among  them  many  great  names. 

With  a  strong  attachment  for  the  Muses,  afler  the  excellent 
education  Rogers  received,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  ventured 
before  the  public.     His  first  work  was  an  "  Ode  to  Superstilioi^, 


6  MEMOIE  OF  feAMUEL  ROGERS- 

and  other  Poems,"  which  appeared  in  1786.  This  was  followed 
by  a  second  publication,  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  when  he 
had  passed  the  greenness  of  youth,  having  attained  his  thirtieth 
year.  In  1792  this  poem  was  received  by  the  public  with  univer- 
sal aj^plause.  The  subject  was  happily  chosen,  coming  home  to 
the  business  and  bosom  of  all ;  it  was  executed  with  great  care, 
and  various  passages  display  uncommon  felicity.  As  a  whole, 
perhaps  its  chief  defect  is  that  it  wants  vigour,  but  the  deficiency 
in  this  quality  is  made  up  in  correctness  and  harmony,  Rogers 
is  one  of  the  most  scrupulous  of  the  sons  of  the  lyre  m  his  metre, 
and  he  too  often  sacrifices  that  harshness  which  sets  oiF  the 
smoother  passages  of  a  writer's  works,  and  prevents  sameness 
and  monotony,  to  mere  cold  purity  of  style.  Perhaps  no  poem 
of  equal  size  ever  cost  its  author  so  many  hours  to  produce.  Not 
satisfied  with  his  own  corrections,  he  repeatedly  consulted  the 
taste  of  some  of  his  friends ;  one  of  the  most  devoted  of  whom, 
Richard  Sharpe,  then  a  wholesale  hatter,  and  since  Member  ot 
Parliament,*  has  said  that,  before  the  publication  of  this  poem, 
and  while  preparing  the  successive  editions  for  press,  they  had 
read  it  together  several  hundred  times,  at  home  as  well  as  on  the 
Continent,  and  in  every  temper  of  mmd  that  varied  company  and 
varied  scenery  could  produce. 

In  the  year  1798,  Rogers  published  "An  Ej)istle  to  a  Friend, 
with  other  Poems,"  and  in  1812  "The  Voyage  of  Columbus." 
Two  years  afterwards,  in  conjunction  with  Lord  Byron,  or  rather 
printed  in  the  same  volume  with  Byi'on's  Lara,  appeared  his  tale 
of  "  Jacqueline ; "  a  poem  which  displays  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
fire  and  energy  of  the  author  of  Manfred.  Sweet  and  jileasing 
rather  than  striking,  "  Jacqueline,"  though  well  received,  contrib- 
uted little  to  increase  its  author's  reputation.  "  Human  Lii'e," 
next  to  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  is  the  most  finished  produc- 
tion of  Rogers.  The  subject  was  a  good  one,  for  it  was  drawn 
from  universal  nature,  and  connected  with  all  those  rich  associa- 

*  Tbis  gentleman  lias  carried  the  art  of  brilliant  and  interesting  conversation 
to  an  unprecedented  degree  of  perfection,  having  in  fact  reduced  it  to  a  matter  of 
mere  business,  as  systematic  as  Book-Keeping.  He  keeps  an  index  to  his  multi- 
tudinous commonplace  books:  and  luis  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  with  his 
different  circles  of  the  jokes  let  off  or  the  set  speeches  made. 


MEMOIR   OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS  7 

tions  which  increase  in  attraction  as  we  journey  onwards  in  tlie 
path  of  life.  It  is  an  epitome  of  man  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
and  is  executed  throughout  wdth  the  poet's  wonted  care. 

The  friendship  of  Rogers  with  Sheridan  and  with  Byron  is 
well  known.     When  the  great  wit,  dramatist,  and  orator,  was 
near  the  close  of  his  career,  neglected  by  those  who  were  foremost 
in  the  circle  of  friends  when  he  enjoyed  health  and  prosperity,  the 
individual  who  relieved  the  wants  of  the  dying  man  was  Rogers ; 
whose  opulence  of  purse  enabled  him  to  do  that  act  of  benevo- 
lence to  his  friend,  which  must  ever  be  one  of  his  most  gratifying 
reminiscences.     It  is  seldom  poets  are  so  well  enabled  to  meet 
the  aspirations  of  their  hearts  towards  others.     A  dispute,  on  the 
appearance  of  Moore's  "  Life  of  Sheridan,"  w^as  very  warmly  kept 
up  connected  with  this  circumstance.     It  was  said  that  a  friend 
of  Sheridan,  of  no  less  rank  than  a  former  King  of  England  him-  . 
self,  had  been  among  those  who,  in  his  last  moments,  were  regard- 
less of  the  pecuniary  necessities  of  the  dying  man ;  that  at  last, 
when  no  longer  necessary,  a  sum  of  money  was  sent  by  the  royal 
order,  which  Sheridan  returned,  saying  that  it  came  too  late,  a 
friend  having  furnished  him  with  all  he  should  require  while  life 
remained.     Loyalty  never  lacks  defenders,  or  ^^erhaps  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  not  to  blame,  as  tales  of  distress  are  always  slow  in 
reaching  the  ears  of  indi\'iduals  in  august  stations.     However  the 
matter  might  have  been,  the  affair  was  warmly  disputed  in  respect 
to  the  implied  royal  neglect,  and  remains  still  in  as  much  uncer- 
tainty as  ever ;  but  Rogers  gloriously  carried  off  the  palm  of 
friendship  and  feeling  on  the  occasion,  let  the  truth  lie  which  side 
it  may,  in  respect  of  the  tender  from  a  higher  quarter.     Byron 
and  Rogers  were  on  terms  of  great  intimacy,  both  in  England  and 
during  the  poet's  residence  in  Italy.     In  that  medley  of  truth  and 
falsehood,  the  "Recollections  of  Byron"  by  Medwin,  the  noble 
poet  is  described  as  alluding  to  a  singular  talent  for  epigram, 
which  Rogers  is  made  to  possess.     This  talent,  however,  has  been 
very  sparingly  employed.      Certain  buffoons  and  scribblers  in 
Sunday  newspapers,  who  have  been  opposed  from  political  princi- 
ples, or  rather  whose  pay  at  the  moment  was  on  the  opposite  side 
to  that  taken  by  the  venerable  poet,  impudently  ascribed  a  thou- 
sand bons-mots  and  repartees  to  Rogers,  whom  they  never  saw  in 


S        MEMOIK  OF  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

their  lives,  and  which  they  manufactured  themselves.  His  skill 
in  writing  epigram,  however,  is  acknowledged ;  but  what  he  has 
produced  is  the  work  of  the  scholar  and  the  gentleman  ;  for  there 
is  not  an  individual  in  existence  less  likely  to  trespass  on  the  rules 
prescribed  for  the  conduct  of  either,  by  the  regulations  of  social 
intercourse. 

Our  poet  has  travelled  much  out  of  his  own  country,  and  he  is 
not  less  a  master  of  manners  in  the  better  classes  of  society  abroad 
than  at  home.  His  "  Sketches  in  Italy,"  prove  that  he  was  no 
unobservant  sojourner  abroad ;  and  as  his  opportunities  for  obser- 
vation were  great,  he  did  not  fail  to  profit  by  them  proportion- 
ately. This  may  be  noticed  in  his  conversation,  which  is  always 
amusing  and  instructive ;  and,  more  particularly,  Avhen,  visiting 
the  circles  of  his  fashionable  or  learned  friends,  he  becomes  the 
spokesman  on  some  topic  which  interests  him,  and  which  he  sees 
aftbrding  gratification  to  others. 

Rogers  never  entered  upon  the  stormy  ocean  of  politics.  This 
is  singular,  from  the  number  of  his  political  friends,  and  the  ex- 
ample set  hun  by  his  father.  The  elder  Rogers  was  renowned  in 
the  annals  of  parliamentary  elections  for  a  severe  contest  with 
Colonel  Holroyd,  subsequently  Lord  Sheffield,  in  dividing  the 
suifrages  of  the  city  of  Coventry,  when  the  obstinacy  of  the  com- 
bat attracted  much  attention.  He  has  wisely  preferred  the  grati- 
fication of  a  pure  taste,  and  the  interchanges  of  urbanity,  to  the 
stirring  hazards  of  political  ambition  :  notwithstanding  which  he 
is  a  warm  partisan  of  the  principles  he  has  chosen,  and  understands 
well  how  to  maintain  them.  What  he  has  done  every  way  proves 
that  he  is  conscious  of  his  own  powers,  but  careless  of  indulging 
them,  though  much  in  this  respect  may  no  doubt  be  attributed  to 
his  unceasing  attention  to  the  calls  of  business,  from  which  he 
never  allows  himself  to  be  diverted. 

Rogers  is  now  in  the  "  sere  and  yellow  leaf"  of  human  vege- 
tation. He  is  the  kind,  agreeable,  aftable  old  man ;  but  there  is 
nothing  beyond  the  good  and  amiable  in  character  depicted  upon 
a  countenance  by  no  means  the  best  formed  and  most  impressive 
of  the  species,  if  the  features  are  separately  considered.  His 
habits  are  remarkably  regular,  and  his  conduct  governed  by  that 
urbanitv  and  breeding  which  show  he  has  been  accustomed  to 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  EOGEES.        C 

mingle  most  in  the  best  society. — He  takes  a  great  interest  in  all 
that  promotes  the  improvement  of  the  state  and  contributes  to 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  his  fellow-men.  In  short,  Rogers, 
like  all  men  of  genius,  if  possessing  certain  eccentricities,  is  gifted 
Mdth  the  impress  of  high  intellect  which  belongs  to  that  character, 
and  which  makes  it  so  distinguished  above  the  herd  of  mankind. 
There  is  about  Rogers,  however,  a  sort  of  otiuin  cum  dignitate 
which  seems  to  rej^ress  his  energies  and  to  keep  inactive  a  spirit 
which,  had  it  been  less  indebted  to  good  fortune  and  flung  more 
upon  its  OMTi  resources,  would  have  performed  greater  things. 

Among  the  friends  of  Rogers  were  Fox,  Sheridan,  Windham, 
and  a  galaxy  of  distinguished  names,  when  they  were  in  the  zenith 
of  their  glory.  To  the  illustrious  nephew  of  Fox,  the  well-known 
Lord  Holland,  and  to  his  friends  of  the  same  political  party, 
Rogers  still  adheres.  He  is  accoimted  one  of  the  hterary  coterie 
at  Holland  House,  the  hospitable  receptacle  of  men  of  talent  from 
all  countries  and  of  all  creeds.  He  is  introduced  in  the  Novel  of 
"Glenarvon"  at  the  court  of  the  Prmcess  of  Madagascar  (a  char- 
acter mtended  for  Lady  Holland) ;  and  perhaps  the  name  of  no 
individual  is  more  on  the  lips  of  a  certain  fashionable  order  of 
persons  who  are  attached  to  literary  pursuits,  than  that  of  Rogers. 
His  opmion  is  looked  up  to,  and  justly,  as  one  of  great  weight ; 
and  though  not  devoid  of  a  certain  irritability  of  temper,  his 
general  good-nature  and  kindness, — for  he  shows  no  tincture  of 
envy  in  his  charactei", — contribute  largely  to  increase  the  influ- 
ence and  imj^ression  made  by  his  judgment. 

Such  is  the  sum  of  all  which  is  knowm  of  Samuel  Rogers, — a 
poet  who  never  rises  to  the  height  of  Byron  or  Campbell,  but 
who  is  of  the  same  school.  He  is  remarkable  principally  for  the 
elegance  and  grace  of  his  compositions,  which  he  polishes  up  and 
smooths  ofi"  as  if  he  valued  only  their  brilliancy  and  finish,  and 
forgot  that  strength  and  force  are  essential  to  ^Joetic  harmony  and 
the  perfection  of  metrical  style.  Notwithstanding  this  defect, 
Rogers  will  be  read  and  admired  while  the  English  language  con 
tinues  to  be  used  or  spoken  in  his  native  islands. 


ITALY, 


PAKT  I. 

I. 

THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA. 

D^Y  glimmer'd  in  tlie  east,  and  the  wliite  Moon 
Hung  like  a  vapour  in  the  cloudless  sky, 
Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went, 
Glad  to  be  gone — a  pilgrim  from  the  north, 
Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer.     Ere  the  artisan, 
Drowsy,  half-clad,  had  from  his  window  leant, 
With  folded  arms  and  listless  look  to  snuff 
The  morning  air,  or  the  caged  sky-lark  sang, 
From  his  green  sod  up-springing — but  in  vain, 
His  tuneful  bill  o'erfl  owing  with  a  song 
Old  in  the  days  of  Homer,  and  his  wings 
With  transport  quivering,  on  my  way  I  went, 
Thy  gates,  Geneva,  swinging  heavily. 
Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut ; 
<A  i  en  that  Sabbath-eve  when  he  arrived,* 


12 


ITALY. 


"WTiose  uanie  is  now  tliy  glory,  now  by  thee 

Inscribed  to  consecrate  (sucL.  vii'tue  dwells 

In  tliose  small  syllables)  tlie  narrow  street, 

His  bii'tli-place — when,  but  one  short  step  too  late, 

He  sate  him  down  and  wept — wept  till  the  morning ; 

Then  rose  to  go — a  wanderer  through  the  world. 

'T  is  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it. 
Yet  at  a  City-gate,  from  time  to  time, 
Much  might  be  learnt ;  and  most  of  all  at  thine 
London — ^thy  hive  the  busiest,  greatest,  still 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by. 
And  note  who  passes.     Here  comes  one,  a  Youth, 
Glowing  with  j)ride,  the  pride  of  conscious  power^ 
A  Chatterton — in  thought  admired,  caress'd, 
And  crown'd  like  Petrarch  in  the  Capitol ; 
Ere  long  to  die — to  fall  by  hia  own  hand, 
And  fester  with  the  vilest.     Here  come  two. 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted — soon  to  part, 
A  Garrick  and  a  Johnson;  Wealth  and  Fame 
Awaiting  one — even  at  the  gate,  Neglect 
And  Want  the  othei.     But  what  multitudes. 
Urged  by  the  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself, 
Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare. 
Press  on — though  but  a  rill  entering  the  Sea, 
Entering  and  lost !     Our  task  would  never  end. 

Day  glimmer'd  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
Ruffling  the  Leman  Lake.     Wave  after  wave, 
If  such  they  might  be  call'd,  dash'd  as  in  sport, 
Not  e*nger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
T  \i-.  is  ur. -beam — where,  alone,  and  as  entranced^ 
i/oimtrng  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 


ITALY.  [3 

Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line, 
Fishing  in  silence.     When  the  heart  is  light 
With  hope,  all  pleases,  nothing  comes  amiss : 
And  soon  a  passage-boat  swept  gaily  by, 
Laden  with  peasant-girls  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 
For  Vevay's  market-place — a  motley  group 
Seen  through  the  silvery  haze.    But  soon 't  was  gone 
The  shifting  sail  flapp'd  idly  for  an  instant, 
Then  bore  them  off. 

I  am  not  one  of  those 
So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world. 
So  wondrously  profound — as  to  move  on 
In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  hke  him  of  old^ 
(His  name  is  justly  in  the  Calendar) 
Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty. 
And  when  at  eve  his  fellow-pilgrims  sate. 
Discoursing  of  the  lake,  ask'd  where  it  was. 
They  marvell'd,  as  they  might ;  and  so  must  all, 
Seemg  what  now  I  saw ;  for  now  't  was  day 
And  the  bright  Sun  was  in  the  firmament, 
A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 
Chequering  the  clear  expanse.     Awhile  his  orb 
Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  Mont  Blanc, 
Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built- j^romontories, 
That  change  theu*  shapes  for  ever  as  in  sport ; 
Then  travell'd  onward,  and  went  down  behind 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  Jura,  lighting  up 
The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  his  axe 
Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 
And,  in  some  deep  and  melancholy  glen, 


14  ITALY. 

That  dungeon-fortress  never  to  be  named, 

Where,  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils, 

Tonssaint  breathed  out  his  brave  and  generous  spirit 

Ah,  little  did  He  think,  who  sent  him  there, 

That  he  himself,  then  greatest  among  men, 

Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  convey'd 

Across  the  ocean — ^to  a  rock  so  small 

Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves, 

That  ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  return'd, 

Saying  it  was  not ! 

Still  along  the  shore. 
Among  the  trees  I  went  for  many  a  mile. 
Where  damsels  sit  and  weave  their  fishinsr-nets. 
Singing  some  national  song  by  the  way-side. 
But  now  't  was  dusk,  and  journeying  by  the  Rhone, 
That  there  came  down,  a  torrent  from  the  Alps, 
I  enter'd  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom,* 
The  mountains  closing,  and  the  road,  the  river 
Filling  the  narrow  pass.     There,  till  a  ray 
Glanced  through  my  lattice,  and  the  household-stir 
Warn'd  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 
A  stir  unusual  and  accompanied 
With  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments. 
And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  pleasure, 
Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite. 
And  nuptial  feasts  attiring — ^there  I  slejDt, 
And  in  my  dreams  wander'd  once  more,  well  pleased 
But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks,  and  woods, 
And  waters ;  for,  methought,  I  was  with  those 
I  had  at  morn,  at  even,  wish'd  for  there. 

*  St.  Maurice. 


n. 

Q^HE  GKEAT  ST.  BERNARD. 

Night  was  again  descending,  wlien  my  mule, 
That  all  day  long  had  climb'd  among  the  clouds 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  jfrom  Heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopp'd,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard ; 
That  door  which  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knock'd  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  Spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me^ 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb, 
And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toilxl  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand, 
While  I  alighted. 

L(mg  could  I  have  stood, 
With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 
That  House,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 
And  placed  there  for  i;he  noblest  purposes. 
'T  was  a  rude  pile  of  simplest  masonry, 
With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses, 
Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  Time  and  Chance, 
Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 
Warr'd  on  for  ever  by  the  elements, 
And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago. 
By  violent  men — ^when  on  the  mountain-top 
The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict. 


IQ  ITALY 

On  tlie  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  cliiircli, 


? 


Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity ; 

The  vesjDer-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper-hour, 

Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 

"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 

Stop  for  an  instant — move  your  lips  in  prayer ! " 

And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale. 

If  dale  it  might  be  call'd,  so  near  to  Heaven, 

A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leap'd  up, 

Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky. 

On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'T  was  a  scene 

Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 

As  though  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved ; — 

And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 

Under  a  beetlino^  chif  stood  half  in  shadow 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead. 

For  such  as,  having  wander'd  from  their  way 

Had  perish'd  miserably.     Side  by  side, 

Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company 

All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them ; 

Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change. 

Though  the  barr'd  windows,  barr'd  against  the  wolf 

Are  always  open ! 

But  the  I^ise  blew  cold ; 
And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 
I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 
At  their  lons^  board.     The  fare  indeed  was  such 
As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence. 
But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine ; 


ITALY.  17 

And  tlirougli  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  matron 
Serving  unseen  below  ;  while  from  the  roof 
(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir), 
A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 
Its  partial  light  on  Apostolic  heads. 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.     Theirs  Time  as  yet 
Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the  prime ; 
ISTor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.     Seen  as  I  saw  them, 
Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth-stone  in  an  hour 
Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 
As  children  ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 
The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth  ; 
Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 
Music ;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came. 
As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  roll'd  on  in  ocean-billows. 
When  on  his  face  the  experienced  traveller  fell. 
Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands. 
Then  all  was  changed  ;  and,  sallying  with  their  pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings.     "  Anselm,  higher  up, 
Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long, 
And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence 
Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  err'd  ? 
Let  us  to  work !  there  is  no  time  to  lose  ! — 
But  who  descends  Mont  Yelan  ?     'T  is  la  Croix. 
Away,  away  !  if  not^  alas,  too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  boy. 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  but  half  awaken'd, 
Asking  to  sleep  again."     Such  their  discourse. 
Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me ; 

2 


18  ITALY. 

St.  Bruno's   once  *  — where,  wlien  the  winds  we^ 

hush'd, 
Nor  from  tlie  cataract  the  voice  came  up, 
You  might  have  heard  the  mole  work  undergroiipd 
So  great  the  stillness  of  that  place ;  none  seen. 
Save  when  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  cross'd 
By  some  rude  bridge — or  one  at  midnight  toll'd 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth, 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable, 
All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 
Of  silence.     Nor  is  that  sequester'd  spot. 
Once    called    "Sweet   Waters,"  now  "The   Shadv 

Vale,"  t 
To  me  unknown  ;  that  house  so  rich  of  old. 
So  courteous,  and  by  two,  that  pass'd  that  wav,  J 
Amply  requited  with  immortal  verse, 
The  Poet's  payment. 

But,  among  them  all. 
None  can  with  this  compare,  the  dangerous  seat 
Of  generous,  active  Virtue.     What  though  Frost 
Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 
Thaw  not,  but  gather — there  is  that  within. 
Which,  where   it  comes,  makes   Summer ;    and    lu 

thouo'ht, 
Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 
Their  garden-plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 
Is  but  some  scanty  lettuce,  to  observe 
Those  from  the  South  ascending,  every  step 
As  though  it  were  tlieir  last — and  instantly 

*  The  Grande  Chartreuse. 

t  Vallorabrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella. 

I  Ariosto  and  Milton. 


ITALY  .  19 

Eestored,  renew'd,  advancing  as  witli  songs, 
Soon  as  tliey  see,  turning  a  lofty  crag, 
That  plain,  tliat  modest  structure,  promising 
Bread  to  tlie  hungry,''  to  the  weary  rest. 

III. 

THE   DESCENT. 

My  mule  refresh'd — and,  let  the  truth  be  told, 
He  was  not  of  that  vile,  that  scurvy  race. 
From  sire  to  son  lovers  of  controversy, 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot, 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  j^recipice. 
Snorting  suspicion  while  with  sight,  smell,  touch, 
Examining  the  wet  and  spongy  moss, 
And  on  his  haunches  sittins:  to  slide  down 
The  steep,  the  smooth — my  mule  refresh'd,  his  bells 
Gingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart, 
And  we  set  out  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly — by  waterfalls 
Fast-frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  mid-way. 
At  length,  uncheck'd,  unbidden,  he  stood  still ; 
And  all  his  bells  were  muffled.     Then  my  Gruide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  address'd  me:    "Through  this 

Chasm 
On  and  say  nothing — ^for  a  word,  a  breath, 
Sstirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow — enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defiled 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Mai'engo. 
Well  I  remem.l.»er,  how  I  met  them  here. 


20  .  ITALY. 

As  the  light  died  away,  and  how  Napoleon, 
AVrapt  in  his  cloak — ^I  could  not  be  deceived— 
Kein'd  in  his  horse,  and  ask'd  me,  as  I  pass'd, 
How  far  't  was  to  St.  Kemi.     Where  the  rock 
Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  away, 
Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  its  base, 
'T  was  there ;  and  down  along  the  brink  he  led 
To  Victory ! — Dessaix,  who  turned  the  scale,^ 
Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field 
(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may  discern  the  spot 
In  the  blue  haze),  sleeps,  as  you  saw  at  dawn, 
Just  as  you  enter'd,  in  the  Hospital-church." 
So  saying,  for  a  while  he  held  his  peace. 
Awe-struck  beneath  that  dreadful  Canopy ; 
But  soon,  the  danger  pass'd,  launch'd  forth  again. 

IV. 

JORASSE. 

JoEASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year ; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused ; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech. 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  Hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps ; 
Had  cauo-ht  their  starts  and  fits  of  thouo-htfulness, 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies, 
Said  to  arise  by  those  who  dwell  below. 
From  frequent  dealings  with  the  Mountain-Spirits, 
But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 
And  now  he  numbered,  marching  by  my  side, 
The  Savans,  Princes,  who  with  him  had  cross'd 
The  frozen  tract,  with  him  familiarly 


ITALY.  21 

Tlirougli  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  conversed 

In  many  a  chalet  round  the  peak  of  terror,* 

Round  Tacul,  Tour,  Well-horn  and  Rosenlau, 

And  Her,  whose  throne  is  inaccessible,  f 

Who  sits,  withdrawn,  in  virgin-majesty, 

Nor  oft  unveils.     Anon  an  Avalanche 

Eoll'd  its  long  thunder ;  and  a  sudden  crash. 

Sharp  and  metallic,  to  the  startled  ear 

Told  that  far-down  a  continent  of  Ice 

Had  burst  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun, 

And  with  what  transport  he  recall'd  the  hour 

When  to  deserve,  to  win  his  blooming  bride, 

Madelaine  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  bound 

The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 

The  Upper  realms  of  Frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 

Let  half-way  down,  enter'd  a  Grot  star-bright 

And  gathered  from  alcove,  below,  around, 

The  pointed  crystals ! 

Once,  nor  long  before 
(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet, 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  Nature  gives 
To  all  her  children — breaking  off  by  starts 
Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  Mule 
Drew  his  displeasure)  once,  nor  long  before. 
Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  sHpp'd,  he  fell ;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Ghding  from  ledge  to  ledge,  from  deep  to  deepor, 
Went  to  the  Under-world !     Long-while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed — then  waked  like  one 
Wishing  to  sleep  agair  and  sleep  for  ever ! 

*  Tlie  Schrekhorn.  t  The  Jung-fraii. 


22  ITALY. 

For,  looldng  ro  md,  lie  saw  or  tliouglit  lie  saw 

Innumerable  branclies  of  a  Cavern, 

Winding  beneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice  ; 

With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  show'd  the  stars  I 

What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 

WTiat  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers. 

Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men, 

Lost  like  himself !     Yet  must  he  wander  on, 

Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 

And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 

When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  Eiver 

Working  its  way  to  light !     Back  he  withdrew, 

But  soon  reurn'd,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 

Dash'd  down  the  dismal  Channel ;  and  all  day. 

If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 

Travell'd  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 

Just  over-head,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 

Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength 

Lashing  him  on.     At  last  the  water  slept 

In  a  dead  lake — at  the  third  step  he  took, 

Unfathomable — and  the  roof,  that  long 

Had  threaten'd,  suddenly  descending,  lay 

Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-hke  he  stood, 

His  journey  ended ;  when  a  ray  divine 

Shot  through  his  soul.      Breathing  a  prayer  to  Hei 

Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 

He  plunged,  he  swam — and  in  an  instant  rose, 

The  barrier  past,  in  light,  in  sunshine  !     Through 

A  smiling  valley,  fuU  of  cottages. 

Glittering  the  river  ran ;  and  on  the  bank 

The  young  were  dancing  ('t  was  a  festival-day) 

All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 


ITALY.  23 

His  Madelaiue.     In  tLe  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  ronnd,  inquiring  ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all,  and,  varying,  as  he  spoke, 
With  liope,  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy. 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close 
When  his  dark  eye  flash'd  fire,  and,  stopping  short, 
He  listen'd  and  look'd  up.     I  look'd  up  too  ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  hiss  that  through  me  thrill'd  ! 
'T  was  heard  no  more.     A  Chamois  on  the  cliff 
Had  roused  his  fellows  with  that  cry  of  fear. 
And  all  were  gone. 

But  now  the  thread  was  brokea. 
Love  and  its  joys  had  vanish'd  from  his  mind  ; 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes 
When  with  his  fiiend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay, 
(His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
His  axe  to  hew  a  stair-case  in  the  ice) 
He  track'd  their  footsteps.     By  a  cloud  surprised. 
Upon  a  crag  among  the  precipices. 
Where  the  next  step  had  hurl'd  them  fifty  fathoms 
Oft  had  they  stood,  lock'd  in  each  other's  arms. 
All  the  long  night  under  a  freezing  sky. 
Each  guarding  each  the  while  from  sleeping,  falling 
Oh,  't  was  a  sport  he  lov'd  dearer  than  life, 
And  only  would  with  life  itself  relinquish ! 
"  My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilds. 
As  for  myself,"  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 
His  wallet  in  his  hand,  "  this  do  I  call 
My  winding-sheet — for  I  shall  have  no  other !  ^ 


t  ITALY. 

And  he  spoke  truth.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes, 
('T  was  on  a  glacier — half-way  up  to  Heaven) 
Taking  his  final  rest.     Long  did  his  wife 
Suckling  her  babe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
The  way  he  went  at  parting,  but  he  came  not ! 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  lest  in  her  sleep 
(Such  their  belief)  he  should  appear  before  her. 
Frozen  and  ghastly  pale,  or  crush'd  and  bleeding, 
To  tell  her  where  he  lay,  and  supplicate 
For  the  last  rite !     At  leno-th  the  dismal  news 
Came  to  her  ears,  and  to  her  eyes  his  corse. 

V. 

MARGUERITE   DE   TOURS. 

Now  the  grey  granite,  starting  through  the  snow. 
Disco ver'd  many  a  variegated  moss* 
That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 
Shadows  out  capes  and  islands  ;  and  ere  long 
Numberless  flowers,  such  as  disdain  to  live 
In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 
The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues, 
With  their  diminutive  leaves  cover'd  the  ground. 
'T  was  then,  that,  turning  by  an  ancient  larcli, 
Shiver'd  in  two,  yet  most  majestical 
With  its  long  level  branches,  we  observed 
A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 
Far  down  by  the  way-side— just  where  the  rock 
Is  riven  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 

*  Lichen  Geographicua. 


ITALY.  2.5 

Has  bridged  tlie  gulf,  a  wondrous  monument  ^ 
Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 
Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen  not  heard, 
And  seen  as  motionless  ! 

Nearer  we  drew, 
And  't  was  a  woman  young  and  delicate. 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand 
In  deepest  thought.     Young  as  she  was,  she  wore 
The  matron-cap  ;  and  from  her  shape  we  judged, 
As  well  we  might,  that  it  would  not  be  long 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  look'd. 
Yet  cheerful ;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not  twice 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  would  be  coming : 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  ol  straw, 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  garnish'd  with  a  riband 
Glittering  with  gold,  but  ill  conceal'd  a  face 
Not  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  journey 'd  slowly  on ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met, 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her. 

She  was  born 
(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  tears) 
In  Val  d'Aosta ;  and  an  Alpine  stream. 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  Dora,  turn'd  her  father's  mill. 
There  did  she  blossom  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  townsman  of  Martigny,  won  her  heart. 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief.     Long  he  held  out, 
Unwilling  to  resign  her  ;  and  at  length, 
When  the  third  summer  came,  they  stole  a  match 
And  fled.     The  act  was  sudden  ;  and  when  far 


26  ITALY. 

Awa}',  her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then 

She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 

Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger ; 

And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 

Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burden'd  as  she  was. 

Cross 'd  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask  forgiveness, 

And  hold  Lim  to  her  heart  before  he  died. 

Her  task  was  done.     She  had  fulfill'd  her  wish, 

And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 

A  frame  like  hers  had  suffer'd ;  but  her  love 

Was  strong  within  her ;  and  right  on  she  went, 

Fearing  no  ill.     May  all  good  Angels  guard  her ! 

And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may. 

Visit  Martigny,  I  will  not  forget 

Thy  hospitable  roof.  Marguerite  de  Tours ; 

Thy  sign  the  silver  swan.*     Heaven  prosper  Thee 

VI. 

THE  ALPS. 

Who  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds. 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
Still  where  they  were,  steadfast,  immovable ; 
Who  first  beholds  the  Alps — that  mighty  chain 
Of  Mountains,  stretching  on  from  east  to  west, 
So  massive,  yet  so  shadowy,  so  ethereal. 
As  to  belong  rather  to  Heaven  than  Earth, 
But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 
A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 
A  somethins:  that  informs  him  't  is  a  moment 
Wheme  he  may  date  henceforward  and  for  ever 2 

*  La  Cygne. 


ITALY.  27 

To  me  they  seem'd  the  barriers  of  a  world, 
Saving,  Thus  far,  no  farther  !    and  as  o'er 
The  level  plain  I  travell'd  silently, 
Nearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 
My  wandering  thoughts  my  only  company, 
And  they  before  me  still,  oft  as  I  look'd, 
A  strange  delight,  mingled  with  fear,  came  o'ei  me 
A  wonder  as  at  things  I  had  not  heard  of ! 
Oft  as  I  look'd,  I  felt  as  though  it  were 
For  the  first  time ! 

Great  was  the  tumult  there, 
Deafening  the  din,  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  Rome 
Entered  their  fastnesses.     Trampling  the  snows. 
The  war-horse  reared  ;  and  the  tower'd  elephant 
Upturn'd  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky. 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallow'd  up  and  lost, 
He  and  his  rider. 

ISTow  the  scene  is  chanwd ; 
And  o'er  Mont  Senis,  o'er  the  Simplon  winds 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar, 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link. 
In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides  ; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appears. 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  him  who  journeys  up, 
As  though  it  were  another,  not  the  same. 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whither. 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  where  it  will, 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in ;  and  on  it  runs, 
"Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 


28  ITALY. 

Tlirougli  glens  lock'd  up  before. 

Not  such  my  path  ! 
Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  delight 
In  dizziness,  gazing  and  shuddering  on. 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns! 
Mine,  though  I  judge  but  from  my  ague-fits 
Over  the  Drance,  just  where  the  Abbot  fell, 
The  same  as  Hannibal's. 

But  now  't  is  past. 
That  turbulent  Chaos ;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness  ! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream, 
And  lo  !  the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joy,  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  Italy 

VII. 

COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  Larian  Lake 
Under  the  shore — ^though  not  to  visit  PHny, 
To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk, 
Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window 
And,  to  deal  plainly,  (may  his  Shade  forgive  me  !) 
Could  I  recall  the  ages  past,  and  play 
The  fool  with  Time,'  I  should  j^erhaps  reserve 
My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  Lake, 
Though  to  fare  worse,  or  Virgil  at  his  farm 
A  little  further  on  the  way  to  Mantua. 
But  such  things  cannot  be.    So  I  sit  still, 
And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail. 


ITALY.  29 

His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like, 
"Well  pleased  with  all  that  comes.    The  morniug  aii 
Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 
A  silvery  gleam :  a  ad  now  the  purple  mists 
Rise  like  a  curtain  ;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 
Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 
This  noble  ampitheatre  of  mountains  ; 
And  now  appear,  as  on  a  phosphor  sea, 
Numberless  barks,  from  IViilan,  from  Pavia ; 
Some  sailing  up,  some  down,  and  some  at  anchor. 
Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port-town 
Under  the  promontory — ^its  tall  tower 
And  long  flat  roof,  just  such  as  Poussin  drew. 
Caught  by  a  sun-beam  slanting  through,  a  cloud ; 
A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life. 
And  doubled  by  reflection. 

What  delight, 
After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild, 
To  hear  once  more  the  sounds  of  cheerful  labour 
— But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  are  they  not 
Along  the  shores  ?  among  the  hills  't  is  now 
The  heyday  of  the  Vintage  ;  all  abroad. 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex, 
Busy  in  gathering ;  all  ainong  the  vines, 
Some  on  the  ladder,  and  some  underneath. 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wicker-work, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolic  laugh 
Come  through  the  leaves ;  the  vines  in  light  festooua 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues. 
And  every  avenue  a  cover'd  walk. 
Hung  with  black  clusters.     'T  is  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 


30  "ALY. 

Melt  into  tears — so  general  is  tlie  joy ! 
While  up  and  down  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake, 
Wains  oxen-drawn,  and  pannier'd  mules  are  seen, 
Laden  with  grapes,  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  Filippo  Mori, 
One  of  those  courtesies,  so  sweet,  so  rare  ! 
When,  as  I  rambled  through  thy  vineyard-ground, 
On  the  hill  side,  thou  sent'st  thy  little  son. 
Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  high  as  he. 
To  press  it  on  the  stranger. 

May  thy  vats 
O'erflow,  and  he,  thy  willing  gift-bearer, 
Live  to  become  ere-long  himself  a  giver ; 
And  in  due  time,  when  thou  art  full  of  honour, 
The  staff  of  thine  old  age  ! 

In  a  strange  land 
Such  things,  however  trifling,  reach  the  heart, 
And  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home. 
And  in  their  place  grafting  Good- Will  to  All. 
At  least  I  found  it  so  ;  nor  less  at  eve, 
When,  bidden  as  an  English  traveller 
('T  was  by.  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  cross'd 
The  bay  of  Tramezzine),  right  readily 
I  turn'd  my  prow  and  followVl,  landing  soon 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave ; 
W^here,  through  the  trellises  and  corridors, 
Soft  music  came  as  from  Armida's  palace. 
Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods,  the  waters 
And  through  a  bright  pavilion,  l)right  as  day, 


ITALY.  3J 

Forms  sucli  as  hers  were  flitting,  lost  among 
Siicli  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by, 
Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  the  feasts 
Painted  by  Cagliari ;  where  the  world  danced 
Under  the  starry  sky,  while  I  look'd  on. 
Admiring,  listening,  quaffing  gramolata, 
And  reading,  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round, 
The  thousand  love-adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget — no,  never,  such  a  scene 
So  full  of  witchery !     Night  linger'd  still. 
When,  with  a  dying  breeze,  I  left  Bellaggio ; 
But  the  strain  follow'd  me  ;  and  still  I  saw 
Thy  smile,  Angelica  ;  and  still  I  heard 
I'hy  voice — once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 

VIII. 

BERGAMO. 

The  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  before, 
But  Vv'here  I  knew  not.     It  inclined  to  sadness ; 
And  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 
My  landlord's  little  daughter,  Barbara, 
Had  from  her  apron  just  roll'd  out  before  me. 
Figs  and  rock  melons — at  the  door  I  saw 
Two  boys  of  lively  aspect.     Peasant-like 
They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskill'd ; 
With  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 
Winning  their  mazy  progress  to  my  heart 
In  that,  ihe  only  universal  language. 
But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 
A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 


82  ITALY. 

A  war  of  words,  and  waged  with  looks  and  gestures, 

Between  Trappanti  and  Ms  ancient  dame, 

Mona  Lucilia.     To  and  fro  it  went ; 

While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard, 

And  Barbara's  among  theDi. 

When  't  was  done, 
Their  dark  eyes  flash'd  no  longer,  yet,  methought, 
In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  express'd 
More  than  enough  to  serve  them.     Far  or  near, 
Few  let  them  pass  unnoticed;  and  there  was  not 
A  mother  round  about  for  many  a  league, 
But  could  repeat  their  story.     Twins  they  were. 
And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world ; 
Their  parents  lost  in  the  old  ferry-boat 
That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went  down 
Crossing  the  rough  Penacus.  * 

May  they  live 
Blameless  and  happy — ^rich  they  cannot  be, 
Like  him  who  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy,'^ 
Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  Petrarch's  door, 
Crying  without,  "  Give  me  a  lay  to  sing  !" 
And  soon  in  silk  (such  then  the  power  of  song) 
Return'd  to  thank  him ;  or  like  him,  wayworn 
And  lost,  who,  by  the  foaming  Adige 
Descending  from  the  Tyrol,  as  night  fell, 
Knock'd  at  a  city-gate  near  the  hill-foot. 
The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone, 
An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 
Found  welcome — nightly  in  the  banner'd  hall 
Tuning  his  harp  to  tales  of  Chivalry 

■^  Logo  di  Garda. 


ITALY.  33 

Before  the  great  Mastino,^  and  his  guests, 
The  three-aucl-twenty,  by  some  adverse  fortune, 
By  war  or  treason  or  domestic  malice, 
Keft  of  their  kingly  crowns,  reft  of  their  all, 
And  living  on  his  bounty. 

But  who  now 
Entering  the  chamber,  flourishing  a  scroll 
In  his  right  hand,  his  left  at  every  step 
Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once  a  ha,t 
Of  ceremony.     Gliding  on,  he  comes. 
Slipshod,  ungarter'd ;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy  and  threadbare,  though  renew'd  in  patches 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  old  one. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
"  'T  is  my  necessity !"  he  stops  and  speaks, 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinnerless  face. 

"  I  am  a  Poet,  Signor : — give  me  leave 
To  bid  you  welcome.  Though  you  shrink  from  notice. 
The  splendour  of  your  name  has  gone  before  you, 
And  Italy  from  sea  to  sea  rejoices. 
As  well  indeed  she  may  !     But  I  trangress : 
I  too  have  known  the  weight  of  praise,  and  ought 
To  spare  another." 

Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  on  my  table, 
And  bow'd  and  left  me ;  in  his  hollow  hand 
Kecei\dng  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchino, 
ITncousciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 

My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 
^*  The  verv  best  in  Ber9:amo  !  had  lonsr 


3  j^  I  T  A  L  Y . 

Fled  from  .all  eyes ;  or,  like  the  yonng  Gil  Bias 
De  Saiitillaue,  I  had  perhaps  been  seen 
Bartei'iug  iny  bi'ead  and  salt  for  empty  praise, 

IX. 

ITALY. 

Am  I  in  Italy  ?    Is  this  the  Mincins  ? 
Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Vei-ona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Mas(|ne 
Saw  her  loved  Montai^me,  and  now  sleeps  l)y  him  ? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  a  finger-post  by  the  road-side 
"To  Mantua"— "To  Ferrara"— ])ut  excites 
Surprise  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  I  could  weep — ^for  thou  art  lying,  alas ! 
Low  in  the  dust ;  and  they  who  come,  admire  thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  deatli. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  Beauty. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  tliou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  enslave  thee ! 
— But  wliy  despair  ?   Twice  hast  thou  lived  already^ 
Twice  shone  amonc;  the  nations  of  the  W(^rld, 
As  the  sun  shines  amouG;  the  lesser  lii^^hts 
OY  heaven  ;  and  shalt  again.    The  hour  shall  come, 
Wlien  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Wlio,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey. 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
riu'iv  A^'i'^d'^m  foil  v.      Fvoii  v(^^y  i}\n  (]-^t'>>'> 


ITALY.  3g 

Bursts  fortli  where  once  it  burnt  so  glorioussiv 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendour  like  the  day, 
That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth — ^the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death 
Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedsemon,  were  themselves. 
Since  men  invoked  "  By  Those  in  Marathon  !" 
Awake  along  the  ^gean ;  and  the  dead, 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call, 
And  through  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are  seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valour. 

X. 

COLL'ALTO. 

In  this  neglected  mirror^  (the  broad  frame 
Of  massive  silver  serves  to  testify 
That  many  a  nol)le  matron  of  the  house 
Has  sate  before  it)  once,  alas,  was  seen 
Wliat  led  to  many  sorrows.    From  that  time 
The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping-place ; 
And  he,  who  cursed  another  in  his  heart, 
Said.  "Be  thy  dwelling  through  the  day,  the  night, 
Shunn'd  like  Coiralto."    'T  was  in  that  old  Castle, 
Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  grey  battlements 
Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest. 
Hangs  in  the  Trevisan,  that  thus  the  Steward, 
Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left  him, 
Address'd  me,  as  we  enter'd  what  was  call'd 
"  My  Lady's  Chamber."    On  the  walls,  the  chairs. 


36 


ITALY. 


Miicli  yet  remain'd  of  tlie  rich  tapestry ; 

Much  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  Lancelot 

In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  foi-est. 

The  toilet  table  was  of  massive  silver, 

Florentine  Art,  when  Florence  was  renown'd ; 

A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements, 

Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage,    * 

Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship, 

That,  when  his  Mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 

(So  said  at  least  the  babbling  Dame,  Tradition) 

His  emerald- wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 

The  song  that  pleased  her.  While  I  stood  and  look'd, 

A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  West, 

The  Steward  went  on. 

"  She  had  ('t  is  now  long  since) 
A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristina, 
Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too. 
None  so  admired,  beloved.    They  had  grown  up 
As  play-fellows ;  and  some  there  were,  who  said, 
Some  who  knew  much,  discoursing  of  Cristina, 
'She  is  not  what  she  seems.'     When  unrequired, 
She  would  steal  forth  ;  her  custom,  her  deliglit. 
To  wander  through  and  through  an  ancient  grove 
Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 
Like  one  in  love  with  sadness ;  and  her  veil 
And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place, 
Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round, 
Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 
The  name  of  The  White  Lady.    But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  you. 

In  that  chair 


ITALY.  37 

Tlio  Count.ess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting, 
Her  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristina, 
Combing  her  golden  hair ;  and,  through  this  door 
The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  call'd  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  Venice ; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed, 
('T  was  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  Spirit — 
Some  say  he  came  and  cross'd  it  at  the  instant) 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answer'd. 
That  turn'd  her  blood  to  gall.    That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.    That  night,  ere  yet  the  Moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 
Baying  as  still  he  does  (oft  do  I  hear  him. 
An  hour  and  more  by  the  old  turret-clock), 
They  led  her  forth,  the  unhappy  lost  Cristina, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress — -to  die. 

"  No  blood  was  spilt ;  no  instrument  of  death 
Lurk'd — or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose  , 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  her  unblemish'd  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour.     Fresh  as  a  flower  ungather'd. 
And  warm  with  life,  her  youthful  pulses  playing. 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  Castle  wall.^*^ 
The  wall  itself  was  hollo w'd  to  receive  her; 
Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 
Would  you  descend  aud  see  it  ? — 'T  is  far  down ; 
And  many  a  stair  is  gone.     'T  is  in  a  vault 
Under  the  Chapel :  and  there  nightly  now, 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair, 
And  as  though  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought  of, 
The  stone- work  rose  before  her,  till  the  lis^ht 
Glimmer'd  and  went — there,  nightly,  at  that  hour 


38  ITALY. 

(You  smile,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale  ! 
Would  we  could  say  so !)  at  that  hour  slie  stands 
Shuddering — her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Joiu'd  as  in  prayer ;  then,  like  a  Blessed  Soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods,  the  mountains.    Issuing  forth," 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  huntins^  track ; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old) 
'  'T  is  the  White  Lady'  ! " 


XL 

VENICE. 

Theee  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea. 
The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  .to  and  fro, 
Lead  to  her  gates.      The  path  lies  o'er  the  Sea, 
Invisible ;  and  from  the  Land  we  went, 
As  to  a  floating  City — steering  in. 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 
So  smoothly,  silently — ^by  many  a  dome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky  ; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendour, 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shatter'd  them, 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 


ITALY.  39 

Thitlier  I  came,  and  in  a  wondrous  Ark 
(That,  long  before  we  slipt  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things) 
r'rom  Padua,  where  the  stars  are,  niglit  by  night, 
Watch'd  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon-tower. 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelin — ^' 
Not  as  he  watch'd  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 
And  shudder'd.     But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 
Him  or  his  horoscope  ;  far,  far  from  me 
The  forms  of  Guilt  and  Fear ;  though  some  were 

there. 
Sitting  among  us  round  the  cabin-board. 
Some  who,  like  him,  had  cried, "  Spill  blood  enough !" 
And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.     They  had  play'd 
Their  parts  at  Padua,  and  were  now  returning ; 
A  vagrant  crew,  and  careless  of  to-morrow, 
Careless  and  full  of  mirth.     Who,  in  that  quaver, 
Sings  "  Caro,  Caro  ? " — 'T  is  the  Prima  Donna, 
And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face. 
Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "  Brava !  Ancora  ? " 
'T  is  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 
Perched  on  her  shoulder.     But  mark  him  who  leaps 
Ashore,  and  with  a  shout  urges  along 
The  lagging  mules  f^  then  runs  and  climbs  a  tree 
That  with  its  branches  overhangs  the  stream. 
And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again. 
'T  is  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh ; 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino.^^ 
And  mark  their  Poet — with  what  emphasis 
He  prompts  the  young  Soubrette,  conning  her  part ! 
Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box, 
And  prompts  again  ;  for  ever  looking  round 


iO  ITALY. 

As  if  in  searcli  of  subjects  for  liis  wit, 

His  satire ;  and  as  often  whispering 

Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginable. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,  Crabbe  (when  thou  hast  done,— « 

Late  may  it  be — it  will,  like  Prospero's  staff, 

Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth), 

I  would  portray  the  Italian — Now  I  cannot. 

Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 

Of  Love,  of  Hate,  for  ever  in  extremes  ; 

Gentle  when  unprovoked,  easily  won, 

But  quick  in  quarrel — ^through  a  thousand  shades 

His  spirit  flits,  chameleon-like  ;  and  mocks 

The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on. 
At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  "  Venezia!" 
And,  as  caU'd  forth,  it  comes. 

A  few  in  fear. 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was,* 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.     Like  the  water-fowl. 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves  ; 
And,  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north,  the  south ;  where  they  t]ia< 

came 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  hke  an  exhalation,  fi'om  the  deep, 
A  vast  Metropolis,  with  glittering  sj^ires. 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorn'd  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion. 
That  has  endured  the  longest  amoiig  men, 

*  Attila. 


ITALY.  4j 

And  whence  tlie  talisman,  by  wliicli  she  rose, 
Towering  ?      'T  was  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise ;  and,  far  or  near. 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian  ? — now  in  Cairo  ; 
Ere  }''et  the  Califa  came,^^  listening  to  hear 
Its  bells  aj)proaching  from  the  Ked-Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  Sea  of  Azoph, 
In  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Russ, 
The  Tartar  ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Peai-ls  fi'om  the  gulf  of  Ormus,  gems  from  Bagdad, 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love. 
From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.     Wandering  round, 
When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw  display'd, 
Treasures  from  unknown  climes,  away  he  went, 
And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere-long 
From  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below  ; 
Making  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East, 
Herself,  his  tril)utary. 

If  we  turn 
To  the  black  forests  of  the  Khine,  the  Danube, 
Where  o'er  each  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs. 
And,  hke  the  wolf  that  hunger'd  at  his  door, 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine — there  we  meet, 
In  warlike  guise,  the  Caravan  from  Venice ; 
When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  emerging, 
A  glittering  file,  the  trumpet  heard,  the  scout 
Sent  and  recall'd — but  at  a  city-gate 
All  gaiety,  and  look'd  for  ere  it  comes  ; 
Winning  its  way  with  all  that  can  attract. 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 
Jugglers,  stage-dancers.     Well  might  Charlemain, 
And  his  brave  peers,  *^ach  with  his  visor  up. 


42  ITALY. 

On  tlieir  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile, 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  Wonders  of  the  East !     Well  might  they  then 
Sigh  for  new  Conquests  ! 

Thus  did  Venice  rise, 
Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came 
That  in  the  Ta2:us  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 
Fragrant  with  sj)ices — that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  open'd,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turn'd  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell. 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed ; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
Of  the  Four  Kingdoms — who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks. 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New, 
From  the  last  trace  of  civilized  life — to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  unclouded  splendour. 

Though  many  an  age  in  the  mid-sea  she  dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  Earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  pass'd,  as  in  an  awful  dream. 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.     What  are  these. 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?     O'er  the  globe  they  fling 
Tlieir  monstrous  shadows  ;  and,  while  yet  we  speak, 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream. ! 
What — but   the    last   that   styled   themselves   the 

Coesars  ? 
And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  come  ; 
Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 


ITALY.  A 


3 


Wear  tlie  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume  ? 

Who — ^but  the  CaHphs  ?  follow'd  fast  by  shapes 

As  new  and  strange — Emperor,  and  King,  and  Czai* 

And  Soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride. 

Trampling  on  all  the  flourishing  works  of  peace 

To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 

His  name  in  blood — some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad ; 

Others,  nor  long,  alas,  the  interval. 

In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 

Wielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 

Mingled  with  darkness  ;  and,  among  the  rest, 

Lo,  one  by  one,  passing  continually. 

Those  who  assume  a  sway  beyond  them  all ; 

Men  grey  with  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown. 

And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  keys 

That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 

Unlock  Heaven's  gate. 


XII. 

LUIGI. 

He  who  is  on  his  travels  and  loves  ease. 
Ease  and  companionship,  should  hire  a  youth, 
Such  as  thou  wert,  Luigi.     Thee  I  found. 
Playing  at  Mora^^  on  the  cabin-roof 
With  Pulcinella — crying,  as  in  wrath, 
"  Tre  !  Quattro !  Cinque !" — 't  is  a  game  to  strike 
Fire  from  the  coldest  heart.  WTiat  then  from  thine  ! 
And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved. 
Won  by  thy  looks.     Thou  wert  an  honest  lad ; 
Wert;  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 


44  ITALY. 

Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  and  pleasure, 

Tliou  woiildst  have  niimber'd  in  tliy  family 

At  least  six  Doges  and  twelve  Procurators." 

But  tliat  was  not  to  be.     In  tliee  I  saw 

The  last  of  a  long  line  of  Carbonari, 

Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years, 

Had  lived  and  labour'd,  cutting,  charring  wood ; 

Discovering  whose  they  were,  to  those  astray, 

By  the  re-echoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 

Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travell'd  slowly  up 

Into  the  sky.     Thy  nobler  destinies 

Led  thee  away  to  justle  in  the  crowd  ;    ' 

And  there  I  found  thee — by  thy  own  prescription 

Crossing  the  sea  to  try  once  more  a  change 

Of  air  and  diet,  landing  and  as  gaily. 

Near  the  Dogana — on  the  Great  Canal, 

As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and  sleep. 

First  did  thou  practise  patience  at  Bologna, 
Serving  behind  a  Cardinal's  gouty  chair. 
Laughing  at  jests  that  were  no  laughing  matter ; 
Then  teach  the  Art  to  others  in  Ferrara 
— At  the  Three  Moors — as  Guide,  as  Cicerone — 
Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 
Thy  scraps  of  knowledge — ^through  the  grassy  street 
Leading,  explaining — pointing  to  the  bars 
Of  Tasso's  dungeon,  and  the  Latin  verse. 
Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door  i 

Of  Ariosto.  j 

Many  a  year  is  gone  5 

Since  on  the  Khine  we  parted ;  yet,  methinka,  ' 

I  can  recall  thee  to  the  life,  Luigi ; 


ITALY.  45 

111  oiir  long  journey  ever  hy  my  side, 

O'er  rough  and  smooth,  o'er  appeniue,  marerama ; 

Thy  locks  jet-black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 

Open  as  day  and  full  of  manly  daring. 

Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came. 

Herdsman  or  pedlar,  monk  or  muleteer ; 

And  few  there  were,  that  met  thee  not  with  smiles. 

Mishap  pass'd  o'er  thee  like  a  summer  cloud. 

Cares  thou  hadst  none ;  and  they,  who  stood  to  hear 

thee, 
Caught  the  infection  and  forgot  their  own. 

IS^ature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 

Her  happiest — not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky ; 

And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirp'd,  Luigi, 

Thine  a  perpetual  voice — at  every  turn 

A  larum  to  the  echo.     In  a  clime, 

Where  all  the  woi'ld  was  gay,  thou  wert  the  gayest. 

And,  like  a  babe,  hushed  only  by  thy  sluml)ers. 

Up  hill  and  down,  morning  and  noon  and  night. 

Singing  or  talking ;  singing  to  thyself 

When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  listener  talking. 

XIII. 

ST.  MARK'S  PLACE. 

Over  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless, 
Nothing  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
Passes,  save  now  and  then  a  cloud,  a  meteor, 
A  famish'd  eagle  ranging  for  his  prey ; 
While  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man, 
How  much  has  been  transacted  !     Emperors,  Popes, 
Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil, 


4P)  ITALY. 

Landing,  have  here  perform'd  their  several  pai-ti^ 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  Inanimate  World, 
Tells  of  Past  Ages. 

In  that  temple-porch 
(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains),  ^* 
DidBarbarossa  fling  his  mantle  off, 
And,  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  pontiff^' — thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight,  disguise,  and  many  an  aguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow.    In  that  temple-porch, 
Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year. 
And  blind — his  eyes  put  out — did  Dandolo 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  ducal  crown 
The  cross  just  then  assumed  at  the  high  altar. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible, 
Though  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many  tears, 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  weeping  much ; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts, 
"  Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest ! " 
— ^There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armour  on, 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  stream'd  aloft, 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny. 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 
He  sail'd  away,  five  hundred  gallant  ships, 
Theu'  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazonVl  shields, 
Following  his  track  to  Glory.    Pie  returned  not ; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere-long, 
Snatch'd  from  destruction — the  four  steeds  divine. 
That  strike  the  o^ronnd,  resounding  with  their  feet. 


ITALY 


47 


And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame 
Over  that  very  portal — in  the  place 
Where  in  an  after-time  Petrarch  was  seen 
Sitting  beside  the  Doge,  on  his  right  hand, 
Amid  the  ladies  of  the  court  of  Venice, 
Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  setting  sun 
By  many-colour'd  hangings  ;  while,  beneath, 
Knights  of  all  nations,  some  from  merry  Eughmd,'" 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  came,  as  if  returning  to  console 
The  least,  instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  Boge, 
Himself,  go  round,  borne  through  the  gazing  crowd, 
Once  in  a  chair  of  state,  once  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  first  appearance  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty. 
Changed  not  so  fast  for  many  and  many  an  age, 
As  this  small  spot.    To-day  't  was  full  of  maskers  ; 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  Carnival,^^ 
The  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  mask'd  ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scaffold  and  the  headsman ; 
And  he  died  there  by  torch-lio^ht,  bound  and  craofo-'d 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not.    Underneath 
Where  the  Archanarel  turnino^  with  the  wind. 
Blesses  the  City  from  the  topmost-tower. 
His  arms  extended — there  continually 
Two  i3hantom-shapes  were  sitting,  side  by  side, 
Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other ; 
Horror  and  Mirth.     Both  vauish'd  in  one  hour ! 
But  Ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 


48  ITALY. 

His  ancient  rule,  sliall  wasli  away  tlieir  footsteps. 

Enter  the  Palace  by  tlie  marlile  stairs  * 
Down  wliich  the  grizzly  head  of  old  Faliero 
Roll'd  from  the  block.     Pass  onward  through  the 

Chamber,    • 
Where,  among  all  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes, 
But  one  is  wanting — where,  thrown  off  in  heat, 
A  short  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  yet  shorter ; 
And  thou  wilt  track  them — wilt  from  halls  of  state 
Where  kino-s  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  sonof 
Rung  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold. 
Step  into  darkness ;  and  be  told,  "  'T  was  here, 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die. 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
Carrara  and  his  valiant  sons  were  straiisrled  ; 
He  first — then  they,  whose  only  crime  liad  been 
Struggling  to  save  their  Father. — Through  that  door 
So  soon  to  cry,  smiting  his  brow,  "I'm  lost !  " 
Vv^as  shown,  and  with  all  courtesy,  all  honour, 
The  great  and  noble  captain,  Carmagnola. — 
That  deep  descent  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 
Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 
Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  came 

never ! 
Leads  to  a  cover'd  Bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot. 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  enter'd, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span; 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 


ITALY.  49 

Forcing  out  life. — But  let  us  to  tlie  roof, 

And,  when  thou  hast  survey'cl  the  sea,  the  land, 

Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there, 

As  in  a  place  of  tombs.     They  had  their  tenants, 

And  each  supplied  with  sufferings  of  his  own. 

There  burning  suns  beat  unrelentingly. 

Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 

The  brain,  till  Reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 

And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side. 

Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery  ! 

— Few  Houses  of  the  size  were  better  fllFd ; 

Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 

"  Most  nights,"  so  said  the  good  old  Mcolo, 

(For  three-and-thirty  years  his  uncle  kept 

The  water-gate  below,  but  seldom  sjioke. 

Though  much  was  on  his  mind),  "  most  nights  arrived 

The  prison-boat,  that  boat  with  many  oars, 

And  bore  away  as  to  the  Lower  World, 

Disburdening  in  the  Canal  Orfano,^^ 

That  drowning-place,  where  never  net  was  thrown. 

Summer  or  Winter,  death  the  penalty ; 

And  where  a  secret,  once  deposited. 

Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead." 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  Venice  ?     Every  gale 
Breathed  heavenly  music !    and  who  flock'd   not 

thither 
To  celebrate  her  Nuptials  with  the  Sea  ? 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,  Persian— night  and  day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  stand  still) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 


50  ITALY. 

The  Enchantress  Pleasure ;  realizing  dreams 
The  earliest,  happiest — for  a  tale  to  catch 
Credulous  ears,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains 
Had  only  to  begin,  "  There  hved  jn  Venice." — 

"  Who  were  the  Six  we  supp'd  with  yesternight  ?*' 
"  Kings,  one  and  all !  Thou  couldst  not  but  remark 
The  style  and  manner  of  the  Six  that  served  them." 

'  Who  answered  me  just  now  ?     Who,  when  1 
said, 
'  'T  is  nine,'  turn'd  round  and  said  so  solemnly, 
'  Signor,  he  died  at  nine  !' " — "  'T  was  the  Armenian  • 
The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou  wilt." 

"  But  who  stands  there,  alone  among  them  all  I  ^'' 
"  The  Cypriot.    Ministers  from  foreign  courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  hour  of  rising ; 
His  the  Great  Secret !    Not  the  golden  house 
Of  Nero,  or  those  fabled  in  the  East, 
As  wrought  by  magic,  half  so  rich  as  his  ! 
Two  dogs,  coal-black,  in  collars  of  pure  gold. 
Walk  in  his  footsteps — Who  but  his  fiimiliars  ? 
He  casts  no  shadow,  nor  is  seen  to  smile !  " 

Such  their  discourse.    Assembling  in  St.  Mark's, 
All  Nations  met  as  on  enchanted  ground ! 

What  though  a  strange,  mysterious  Power,  wa3 
there, 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible, 
And  universal  as  the  air  they  breath'd ; 


ITALY.  r^l 

A  Power  tliat  never  slumber'd,  never  pardon'd, 

All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywliere,~^ 

Entering  tlie  closet  and  the  sanctuary, 

No  place  of  refuge  for  the  Doge  himself; 

Most  present  when  least  thought  of — ^nothing  drop! 

In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips, 

Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 

Observed  and  judged — a  Power,  that  if  but  glanced  at 

In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might. 

The  speaker  lower'd  at  once  his  eyes,  his  voice. 

And  pointed  upward,  as  to  God  in  Heaven — 

"What  though  that  Power  was  there,  he  who  lived 

thus. 
Pursuing  Pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not, 
But  let  him  in  the  midnio:ht-air  induls^e 
A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  Venice, 
And  in  that  hour  he  vanish'd  from  the  earth ! 

XIV. 

THE   GONDOLA. 

EoY,  call  the  Gondola ;  the  sun  is  set. 
It  came,  and  we  embark'd ;  but  instantly, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  board  so  light  of  foot, 
So  hght  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  wh}^, 
Sleep  overcame  her  ;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  wak'd  her ;  but  the  boat 
Rock'd  her  to  sleep  again. 

The  moon  was  up. 
But  broken  by  a  cloud.    The  wind  was  hush'd, 
And  the  sea  mirror-like.    A  single  zephyr 
Play'd  with  her  tresses,  and  drew  more  and  more 


52  ITALY. 

Her  veil  across  lier  bosom. 

Long  I  lay 
Contemplating  tliat  face  so  beautiful, 
That  rosy  mouth,  that  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles, 
That  neck  but  half-concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 
'T  was  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  early  age. 
I  look'd  and  look'd,  and  felt  a  flush  of  joy 
I  would  express,  but  cannot. 

Oftlwish'd 
Gently — by  stealth — to  drop  asleep  myself. 
And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come ; 
Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forge tfulu ess. 
'T  was  all  in  vain.    Love  would  not  let  me  rest. 

But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  wak'd ! 
When,  her  light  hair  adjusting,  and  her  veil 
So  rudely  scatter'd,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me ;  and,  as  gaily  as  before, 
Sitting  unconsciously  nearer  and  nearer, 
Pour'd  out  her  innocent  mind  ! 

So,  nor  long  since, 
Sung  a  Venetian :  and  his  lay  of  love. 
Dangerous  and  sweet,  charm'd  Venice.     As  for  me 
(Less  fortunate,  if  Love  be  Happiness) 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
I  went  alone  under  the  silent  moon ; 
Thy  place,  St.  Mark,  thy  churches,  palaces. 
Glittering,  and  frost-like,  and  as  day  drew  on, 
Melting  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

Those  porches  pass'd  through  which  the  water 
breeze 


ITALY.  53 

Plays,  thoiigli  no  longer  on  tlie  noble  forms 

That  moved  there,  sable-vested — and  the  Quay, 

Silent,  ofrass-o;rown — adventurer-like  I  launch'd 

Into  the  deep,  ere-long  discovering 

Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  Southern  seas, 

All  verdure.    Everywhere,  from  bush  and  brake 

The  musky  odour  of  the  serpents  came ; 

Their  slimy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 

Bright  in  the  moonshine :  and,  as  round  I  went. 

Dreaming  of  Greece,  whither  the  waves  were  gliding, 

I  listen'd  to  the  venerable  pines 

Then  in  close  converse ;  and,  if  right  I  guess'd, 

Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  Winds 

In  secret,  for  their  kindred  on  Mount  Ida. 

Nor  when  again  in  Venice,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
Where  nothing  comes  to  di'own  the  human  voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  the  tide, 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  Jessica 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sate 
At  her  half-open  window.    Then,  methought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Through  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud  heart 
Of  some  Priuli.    Once,  we  could  not  err, 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house, 
As  between  night  and  day  we  floated  by), 
A  Gondolier  lay  singing ;  and  he  sung 
As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself,^* 
Of  Tancred  and  Erminia.    ©n  our  oars 
We  rested  ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine ! 
We  coidd  not  err — Perhni'>s  he  "''^^  ^^^-^  i--f  _ 


^4  ITALY. 

For  none  took  up  tlie  strain,  none  answered  liim  ; 
And  when  lie  ceased,  lie  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  Venice. 

The  moon  went  down ;  and  nothing  now  was  seen 
Save  here  and  there  the  lamp  of  a  Madonna, 
Glimmering — or  heard,  but  when  he  spoke,  who  stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow,  and  cried. 
Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile, 
Some  school  or  hospital  of  old  renown, 
Though  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were  near, 
"  Hasten  or  slacken."  * 

But  at  length  Night  fled ; 
And  with  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  Pleasure. 
Star  after  star  shot  by,  or,  meteor-like, 
Cross'd  me  and  vanish'd — lost  at  once  among 
Those  hundi'ed  Isles  that  tower  majestically, 
That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water-mark, 
Not  with  rough  crag,  but  marble,  and  the  work 
Of  noblest  architects.    I  linger'd  still , 
Nor  struck  my  threshold,  till  the  hour  was  come 
And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  grey  light, 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door,~^ 
That  door  so  often  with  a  trembling  hand, 
So  often — then  so  lately  left  ajar, 
Shut ;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity 
Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  lo^  e, 
Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 

*  Premi  o  sta. 


ITALY.  55 

XV. 

THE   BRIDES    OF   VENICE. 

It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  and  all  pour'd  forth 
As  to  some  grand  solemnity.    The  fisher 
Came  froni  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 
Plis  wife  and  little  one ;  the  husbandnian 
From  the  Firm  Land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 
Crowding  the  common  ferry.    All  arrived ; 
And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turn'd  and  listen'd, 
So  great  the  stir  in  Venice.     Old  and  young 
Throngxl  her  three  hundred  bridges ;  the  grave  Turk 
Turbau'd,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 
In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine. 
Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was, 
The  noblest  sons  and  dauo-hters  of  the  State 
They  of  Patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Gold, 
Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Bising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming  • 
And  never  from  the  fii'st  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendour  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unroll'd  before  them), 
First  came  the  Brides  in  all  their  loveliness ; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bride-maids  follow'd, 
Only  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contain'd 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 


56  ITALY. 

A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  ostricli-featliers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 
Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 
And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone, 
Kuby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst ; 
A  jewell'd  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 
Wreathing  her  gold  brocade. 

Before  the  Church, 
That  venerable  Pile  on  the  sea-brink. 
Another  train  they  met,  no  strangers  to  them. 
Brothers  to  some,  and  to  the  rest  still  dearer ; 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  plume, 
And,  as  he  walk'd,  with  modest  dignity 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle,  his  tabarro. 

They  join,  they  enter  in,  and,  up  the  aisle 
Led  by  the  full- voiced  choir  in  bright  procession, 
Rano^e  round  the  altar.     In  his  vestments  there 
The  Patiiarch  stands ;  and,  while  the  anthem  flows, 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved  ? — mothers  in  secret 
Rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  their  daughters, 
Sons  in  the  thought  of  making  them  their  own  ; 
And  they — array'd  in  youth  and  innocence, 
Their  beauty  heighten'd  by  their  hopes  and  fears. 

At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down 
In  earnest  prayer,  -all  of  all  ranks  together ; 
And,  stretching  out  his  hands,  the  holy  man 
Proceeds  to  give  the  general  benediction ; 
When  hark,  a  din  of  voices  from  without 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  battle. 
And  lo,  the  door  i^  bnr'^t.  the  r-nrtnin  rent. 


ITALY.  57 

And  armed  ruffians,  robbers  from  tbe  deep, 
Savage,  uncoiitli,  led  on  by  Barbarigo, 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel. 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold  !     Statue-like, 
Awhile  they  gaze  on  the  falleu  multitude. 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike ; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell. 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again — amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

"Where  are  they  now  ? — ^plowing  the  distant  waves 
Their  sails  all  set,  and  they  upon  the  deck 
Standing  triumphant.     To  the  east  they  go. 
Steering  for  Istria ;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known,  the  galhot  and  the  galley). 
Freighted  with  all  that  gives  to  life  its  value  ! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them ! 

Now  might  you  see  the  matrons  running  wild 
Along  the  Ijeach  ;  the  men  half-arm'd  and  arming 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear ; 
One  with  an  axe  hewing  the  mooring-chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank. 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  Venice  was  afloat.     But  long  before, 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control. 
The  youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine, 
L)-ing  at  anchor  near  the  Arsenal ; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood, 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

Arifl  from  the  tower 


^6) 


58  ITALY.      ' 

Tlie  watcliman  gives  the  signal.     In  tlie  East 

A  sMp  is  seen,  and  making  for  tlie  Port ; 

Her  flag  St.  Mark's. — And  now  slie  turns  tke  point, 

Over  tke  wat  ers  like  a  sea-bird  flying ! 

Ha,  't  is  the  same,  't  is  theirs  !  from  stern  to  pro^v 

Himg   with  green  boughs    she  comes,  she   comes, 

restoring 
All  that  was  lost. 

Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 
Friuli — like  a  tiger  in  his  spring. 
They  had  surprised  the  Corsairs  where  they  lay 
Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 
And  casting  lots — ^had  slain  them,  one  and  all, 
All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 
Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element ; 
Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 
Had  hush'd  the  babes  of  Venice,  and  who  yet, 
Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retaiu'd 
The  fierceness  of  his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  Brides 
Lost  and  recover'd ;  and  what  now  remain'd 
But  to  give  thanks  ?      Twelve   breast   plates   and 

twelve  crowns, 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  the  votive  ofieringa 
Of  the  young  victors  to  their  Patron-Saint. 
Vow'd  on  the  field  of  battle,  were  ere-long 
Laid  at  his  feet  f^  and  to  preserve  for  ever 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change, 
From  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
Through  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
'T  was  held  religiously  with  all  observance. 
The  Doge  resign'd  his  crimson  for  pure  ermine : 


ITALY.  59 

And  through  tlie  city  in  a  stately  barge 

Of  gold,  were  borne,  witb  songs  and  symplionies, 

Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.     Clad  tliey  were 

In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 

Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;  and  on  the  deck. 

As  on  a  biirnish'd  throne,  they  glided  by ; 

No  window  or  balcony  but  adorn'd 

With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 

But  cover'd  with  beholders,  and  the  air 

Vocal  with  joy.    Onward  they  went,  their  oars 

Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony, 

Throuo^h  the  Rialto  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 

And  at  a  banquet  there,  served  with  due  honour 

Sate  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all. 

Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 

Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  Venice, 

XVI. 

FOSCARL 

Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe, 
What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 
And  now  a  groan,  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 
Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there ; 
Men  who  have  served  their  country,  and  grown  grey 
In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 
Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 
Such  as  in  effigy  shall  long  adorn 
The  walls  of  Venice — ^to  show  what  she  has  been ! 
Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 
And  sad  the  general  aspect.    Yet  their  looks 
Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  nothing  there  like  grief. 


60  ITALY. 

Nothing  or  liarsli  or  cruel.     Still  that  noise, 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 
A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  upward. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrow'd  brow. 
His  hands  are  clench'd ;  his  eyes  half-shut  and  glazed, 
His  shrunk  and  wither'd  hmbs  rigid  as  marble. 
'T  is  Foscari,  the  Doge.    And  there  is  one, 
A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretch'd  out 
In  torture.     'T  is  his  son,  his  only  one ; 
'T  is  Giacomo,  the  blessing  of  his  age, 
(Say,  has  he  lived  for  this  ?)  accused  of  murder, 
The  murder  of  the  Senator  Donato. 
Last  night  the  proofs,  if  proofs  they  are,  were  dropt 
Into  the  lion's  mouth,  the  mouth  of  brass. 
That  gapes  and  gorges ;  and  the  Doge  himself 
Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  Son 
Suffering  the  Question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace 
To  save  a  falling  house,  and  turn  the  hearts 
Of  his  fell  Adversaries,  those  who  now. 
Like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry,  are  running  down 
His  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask  their  leave 
To  lay  aside  the  Crown,  and  they  refused  him, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask  it ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  woe. 
By  them,  his  rivals  in  the  State,  compell'd, 
Such  the  refinement  of  their  cruelty, 
To  keep  the  place  he  sigh'd  for. 

Once  agam 
The  screw  is  turn'd :  anrl.  as  it  turns,  the  Son 


ITALY.  f5X 

Looks  up,  and,  in  a  faint  and  broken  accent, 

Murmurs  "My  Father!"    Tlie  old  man  shrinks  back 

And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 

"  Art  thou  not  guilty  ?  "  says  a  voice,  that  once 

Would  greet  the  Sufferer  long  before  they  met, 

And  on  his  ear  strike  like  a  pleasant  music — 

"  Art  thou  not  guilty  ? " — "  No !  Indeed  I  am  not !" 

But  all  is  unavailing.    In  that  Court 

Groans  are  confessions ;  Patience,  Fortitude, 

The  work  of  Magic ;  and,  released,  upheld, 

For  Condemnation,  from  his  Father's  lips 

He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  Candia ; 

Death,  if  he  leaves  it." 

And  the  bark  sets  sail ; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves — ^for  ever ! 
His  wife,  his  boys,  and  his  disconsolate  parents ! 
Gone  in  the  dead  of  night — unseen  of  any — • 
Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness, 
To  be  call'd  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours 
He  would  indulge  in  weeping. 

Like  a  ghost. 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  haunts 
An  ancient  rampart,  that  o'erhangs  the  sea ; 
Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  starting 

To  answer  to  the  watch Alas,  how  changed 

From  him,  the  muTor  of  the  Youth  of  Venice, 

In  whom  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim  or  chance, 

Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so, 

All  follow'd ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  at  length 

He  won  that  maid  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest,^ 

A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Contarini, 

That  House  as  old  as  Venice.,  now  among 


62  ITALY. 

Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 
Numbering  eight  Doges — ^to  convey  lier  liome, 
Tlie  Bucentaur  went  forth ;  and  tlirice  the  Sun 
Shone  on  the  Chivalry,  that,  front  to  front. 
And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 
To  tournay  in  St.  Mark's. 

But  lo,  at  last, 
Messengers  come,     fle  is  recalled :  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.    He  embai'ks ;  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes — 
Into  that  very  Chamber !  there  to  lie 
In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  torture ; 
And  thence  look  up  (five  long,  long  years  of  Grief 
Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  wretched  Sire, 
Still  in  that  seat — as  though  he  had  not  left  it, 
Immovable,  enveloped  in  his  mantle. 

But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  Venice.    Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 
'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear.    His  longing  fits 
Thicken'd  upon  him.     His  desire  for  home 
Became  a  madness ;  and,  resolved  to  go, 
If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writes 
A  letter  to  Francesco,  Duke  of  Milan, 
Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  State, 
And  drops  it  to  be  found. — "  Would  ye  know  all  ? 
I  have  transgress'd,  offended  wilfully ;  ^^ 
And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 
But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  instant 
(Ye  must  consent — for  all  of  you  are  sons. 
Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers),  let  me  first 


ITALY.  ^3 

Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 
And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be, 
Press  to  my  heart  ('t  is  all  I  ask  of  you) 
My  wife,  my  children — and  my  aged  mother — 
Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ? " 

He  is  condemned 
To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banish' d  man — and  for  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapour  of  a  dungeon. — But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  ?)  is  granted. 

In  a  hali 
Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  rabble, 
'T  was  there  a  trembling  Wife  aud  her  four  Sons 
Yet  young,  a  Mother,  borne  along,  bedridden. 
And  an  old  Doge,  musteruig  up  all  his  strength. 
That  strength  how  small !  assembled  now  to  meet 
One  so  long  lost,  long  mourn'd,  one  who  for  them 
Had  braved  so  much — death,  and  yet  worse  than 

death — 
To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever ! 

Time  and  their  heavy  wrongs  had  changed  them 
all; 
Him  most !    Yet  when  the  Wife,  the  Mother  look VI 
Again,  't  was  he  himself,  't  was  Giacomo, 
Their  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  consolation ! 
And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly ; 
Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  unsettled  in  his  mind  from  long 
And  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  aloud  and  cries 
Kissing  the  old  man's  cheek,  "  Help  me,  my  Father ! 


gi  ITALY. 

Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  you : 
Let  me  go  liome." — "  My  Sod,"  returns  tlie  Doge, 
Mastering  awhile  his  grief,  "  if  I  may  still 
Call  thee  my  Son,  if  thou  art  innocent, 
As  I  would  fain  believe,"  but,  as  he  speaks, 
He  falls,  "  submit  without  a  murmur." 

Nicrht 
That  to  the  World  brought  revelry,  to  them 
Brought  only  food  for  sorrow.     Griacomo 
Embark'd — to  die ;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  thee,  Erizzo,  whose  death-bed  confession, 
"  He  is  most  innocent !     'T  was  I  who  did  it !  " 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that  sail'd 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  recall  to  Honour, 
'  Bore  back  a  lifeless  corse.     Generous  as  brave. 
Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  love  and  duty,  were  to  him  as  needful 
As  was  his  daily  bread ; — and  to  become 
A  byword  in  the  meanest  mouths  of  Venice, 
Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life. 
On  those,  alas,  now  worse  than  fatherless — 
To  be  proclaim'd  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber. 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach  — 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  lost, 
Death  followed.     From  the  hour  he  went,  he  sp^ke 

not; 
And  in  his  dungeon,  when  he  laid  him  down, 
He  sunk  to  rise  no  more.     Oh,  if  there  be 
Justice  in  Heaven,  and  we  are  assured  there  is, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  Retribution  ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  Man,  full  to  o'erilowlng. 


ITALY.  65 

But  thou  wert  yet  alive ;  and  there  was  one, 

The  soul  and  sj^ring  of  all  that  Enmity, 

Who  would  not  leave  thee  ;  fastening  on  thy  flank, 

Hungering  and  thii'sting,  still  unsatisfied ; 

One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own  ! 

One  of  the  Ten !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three !  ^ 

'T  was  Loredano. 

When  the  whelps  were  gone, 
He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  from  his  den  ; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howl'd 
Against  fallen  Greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  Doge  no  longer ;  urging  his  great  age, 
His  incaj^acity  and  nothingness  ; 
Calling  a  Father's  sorrows  in  his  chamber 
Neglect  of  duty,  anger,  contumacy. 
"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  Foscari : 
"  But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 
Do  with  me  as  ye  please." 

He  was  deposed. 
He,  who  had  reign'd  so  long  and  gloriously ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow. 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  ring,  that  ancient  symbol, 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.     All  things  alike  ! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.     "  I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo." 
"Ah,"  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend." 

And  now  he  goes.     "  It  is  the  hour  and  past. 
I  have  no  business  here  " — "  But  wilt  thou  not 


66  ITALY. 

Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  ?     That  way  is  private." 

"  No !  as  I  enter'd,  so  will  I  retire." 

And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  Palace, 

His  residence  for  four-and-thirty  years, 

By  the  same  staircase  he  came  up  in  splendour, 

The  staircase  of  the  Giants.     Turning  round. 

When  in  the  court  below,  he  stopt  and  said, 

"  My  merits  brought  me  hither.     I  depart. 

Driven  by  the  mahce  of  my  Enemies." 

Then  through  the  crowd  withdrew,  poor  as  he  came 

And  in  his  gondola  went  ofi^  unfoUow'd   . 

But  by  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  last.     When  the  bell  rang 
Next  day,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  Venice, 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  altar. 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer ; 
And  there  he  died.    Ere  half  its  task  was  done. 
It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate. 
That  caused  all  this — the  hate  of  Loredano  ? 
It  was  a  legacy  his  Father  left  him. 
Who,  but  for  Foscari,  had  reign'd  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gather'd  and  grew !    Nothing  but  turn'd  to  venom ! 
In  vain  did  Foscari  sue  for  peace,  for  friendship. 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  Isabel. 
He  changed  not ;  with  a  dreadful  piety. 
Studying  revenge !  listening  alone  to  those 
Who  talk'd  of  vengeance ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none,  alas,  were  wanting) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  Wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.    When  his  father  died, 


ITALY.  67 

T  was  whisper'd  lu  his  ear,  "  He  died  by  poison  ! " 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb  ('t  is  there  in  maVble) 
And  in  his  ledger-book — among  his  debtors — 
Enter'd  the  name  "  Feaistcesco  Foscari," 
And  added,  "  For  the  mnrder  of  my  Father." 
Lea^dng  a  blank — to  be  filPd  up  hereafter. 
When  Foscari's  noble  heart  at  leno-th  ffave  wav. 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  asj-ain 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  fill'd  uj)  the  blank, 
Inscribing,  "  He  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit, 
Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  though  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  your  fangs, 
And,  like  the  Pisan,*  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  him  who  had  offended — if  ye  must, 
Sit  and  brood  on  ;  but  oh  !  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 

XVH. 

ARQUA. 

Theee  is,  within  three  leagues  and  less  of  Padua 
(The  Paduau  student  knows  it,  honours  it), 
A  lonely  tomb-stone  in  a  mountain-churchyard, 
And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 
Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  aii's,  that  breathe 
Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 
Singing  their  farewell  song — the  very  song 
They  sung  the  night  that  tomb  received  a  tenant ; 


*  Count  TJgolino. 


68  ITALY. 

When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  Canon's  habit, 
And  slowly  winding  down  the  narrow  path. 
He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 
Princes  and  prelates  mingled  in  his  train. 
Anxious  by  any  act,  while  yet  they  could. 
To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  reflection  ; 
And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flock'd 
From  distant  countries,  from  the  north,  the  south, 
To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago, 
When  I  descended  the  impetuous  Rhone, 
Its  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown, 
Its  castles  each  with  some  romantic  tale. 
Vanishing  fast — ^the  pilot  at  the  stern. 
He  who  had  steer'd  so  long,  standing  aloft. 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 
On  what  at  once  served  him  for  oar  and  rudder, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank — the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  launch'd  to  return  no  more. 
Such  as  a  shipwreck'd  man  might  hope  to  build, 
Urged  by  the  love  of  home — when  I  descended 
Two  long,  long  days'  silence,  suspense  on  board. 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  Yalclusa, 
Entering  the  arched  Cave,  to  wander  where 
Petrarch  had  wander'd,  in  a  trance  to  sit 
Where  in  his  peasant-dress  he  loved  to  sit, 
Musing,  reciting — on  some  rock  moss-grown, 
Or  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  fig  tree. 
That  drinks  the  living  waters  as  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald-bed ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  to  visit  Arqua,^°  where,  at  last. 
When  he  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world. 


ITALY, 


69 


When  all  the  illusions  of  his  Youth  were  fled, 

Indulged  perhaps  too  long,  cherish'd  too  fondly, 

He  came  for  the  conclusion  ?    Half-way  up 

He  built  his  house,^^  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught 

Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life, 

That  soothed,  not  stirr'd. — But  knock,  and  enter  in. 

This  was  his  chamber.    'T  is  as  when  he  left  it; 

As  if  he  now  were  busy  in  his  garden. 

And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sate  and  read. 

This  was  his  chair ;  and  in  it,  unobserved, 

Eeading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends, 

He  pass'd  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

Peace  to  this  region !     Peace  to  all  who  dwell 
here : 
They  know  his  value — every  coming  step. 
That  gathers  round  the  childi-en  from  their  play, 
"Would  tell  them  if  they  knew  not. — But  could  aught 
Ungentle  or  ungenerous,  spring  up 
Where  he  is  sleeping ;  where,  and  in  an  age 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry. 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ; 
Leading  to  better  things  ? 

XVIH. 

GINEVRA. 

If  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
Where  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs. 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina), 
Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 


70  ITALY. 

Dwelt  la  of  old  by  one  of  tlie  Orsini, 
Its  mble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cy]3resses. 
Will  long  detain  you — ^but,  before  you  go, 
Elnter  tlie  liouse — ^forget  it  not,  I  pray — 
And  look  awHle  upon  a  picture  there. 

'T  is  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He,  who  observes  it — ere  he  passes  on. 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  a2:ain. 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said  "Beware  !"  her  vest  of  g<>hl 
Broider'd  with  flowers,  and  clasp'd  from  head  to  foDt. 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face. 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Ti-ent 
With  scri23ture-stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held  ^ 


ITALY. 


71 


The  clucal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor — 
That  by  the  way — it  ma^^  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture ;  and  j^ou  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Ginevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Father  ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride. 
Marrying  an  onl}^  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress. 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 
Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lad}^,  preach'd  decorum  ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  Nuptial  Feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  Bride  herself  was  wanting. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  Father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !" 
And  fiird  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'T  was  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still. 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guess'd, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 


72  ITALY. 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Yenice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might  yon  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless^ — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 

When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 

'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery ; 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ;  and  't  was  said 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 

"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ? " 

'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 

It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 

With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 

A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 

All  else  had  perish'd — save  a  wedding-ring. 

And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 

Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 

"Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal'd  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy  j 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fasten'd  her  down  for  ever ! 


ITALY. 

XIX. 

BOLOGNA. 

'T  WAS  night ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.     The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures — he  and  his  stage  were  gone  ; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and  fear, 
Sent  round  his  cap ;  and  he  who  thrumm'd  his  wire 
And  sang,  with  pleading  look  and  plaintive  strain 
Melting  the  passenger.     Th}^  thousand  cries,* 
So  well  portray'd  and  by  a  son  of  thine, 
Whose  voice  had  swelPd  the  hubbub  in  his  youth, 
Were  hush'd,  Bologna ;  silence  in  the  streets, 
The  squares,  when  hark,  the  clattering  of  fleet  hoofs ! 
And  soon  a  courier,  posting  as  from  far, 
Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat 
And  doublet,  stain'd  with  many  a  various  soil, 
Stopt  and  alighted.     'T  was  where  hangs  aloft 
That  ancient  sign,  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 
All  who  arrive  there,  all  perhaps  save  those 
Clad  like  himself,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell, 
Those  on  a  pilgrimage :  and  now  approach'd 
Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticos  resounding. 
Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 
As  the  sky  changes.     To  the  gate  they  came  ; 
And,  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done. 
Mine  host  received  the  Master — one  long  used 

*  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drawn  by  Annibal  Carracci.  He  was 
of  very  humble  origin ;  and,  to  correct  his  brother's  vanity,  once  sent  him 
a  portrait  of  their  father,  the  tailor,  threading  his  needle. 


73 


74  ITALY. 

To  sojourn  among  strangers,  everywhere 

(Go  "wliere  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 

Flinging  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost, 

And  leaving  footsteps  to-  be  traced  by  those 

Who  love  the  haunts  of  Genius  ;  one  who  saW; 

Observed,  nor  shunn'd  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 

But  mingled  not,  and,  'mid  the  din,  the  stir, 

Lived  as  a  separate  Spirit. 

Much  had  pass'd 

Since  last  we  parted  ;  and  those  five  short  years — ■ 

Much  had  they  told!    His  clustering  locks  were 

turn'd 

Grey  ;  Nor  did  aught  recall  the  Youth  that  swam 

From  Sestos  to  Abydos.     Yet  his  voice, 

Still  it  was  sweet;  still  from  his  eye  the  thought 

Flash'd  lightning-like,  nor  linger'd  on  the  way, 

Waiting  for  words.     Far,  far  into  the  night 

We  sate,  conversing — no  unwelcome  hour, 

The  hour  we  met ;  and,  when  Aurora  rose, 

Kising,  we  climbed  the  rugged  Apennine. 

Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 

Fill'd  with  its  beams  the  unfathomable  gulfs, 

As  on  we  travell'd,  and  along  the  ridge, 

'Mid  groves  of  cork  and  cistus  and  wild  fig. 

His  motley  household  came — Not  last  nor  least, 

Battisla,  who  upon  the  moonlight-sea 

Of  Yenice,  had  so  ably,  zealously 

Served,  and,  at  parting,  flung  his  oar  away 

To  follow  through  the  world ;  who  without  stain 

Had  w^orn  so  long  that  honourable  badge/-' 

The  gondolier's,  in  a  Patrician  House 

*  The  principal   gondolier,  il  fante  di  poppa,  was  almost  always  iu   the 


ITALY.  76 

Arguing  unlimited  trust. — Not  last  nor  least, 
Thou,  though  declining  in  t\ij  beaut}^  and  strength, 
Faithful  Moretto,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber-door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  stmnd  of  Missolonghi 
Howling  in  grief. 

He  had  just  left  that  place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  Sea,'-' 
Ravenna  ;  where,  from  Dante's  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares, f 
Drawn  inspiration  ;  where,  at  twilight  time, 
Through  the  pine-forest,  wandering  with  loose  rein, 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  so  oft  beheld  | 
(What  is  not  visible  to  a  Poet's  eye  ?) 
The  spectre-knight,  the  hell-hounds,  and  their  prey, 
The  chase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 
Suddenly  blasted.     'T  was  a  theme  he  loved, 
But  others  claim'd  their  turn  ;  and  many  a  tower. 
Shatter 'd,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock, 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  heroic  age, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd  (many  a  sturdy  steer  § 
Yoked  and  unyoked),  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  pour'd  his  spirit  forth.     The  past  forgot. 
All  was  enjoj'ment.     Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present  or  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest ; 
And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike, 

confidence  of  his  master,  and  employed  on  occasions  that  required  judgment 
and  address. 

*  Adrianum  mare. —  Cic.  \  See  tlio  Prophecy  of  Dante. 

X  See  the  talo  as  told  by  Boccaccio  and  Dryden. 

§  They  wait  for  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  of  every  hill. 


76  ITALY. 

Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  Byron,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  through  the  firmament, 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.     Yet  thy  heart,  methinks, 
Was  generous,  noble — noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  low  or  little  ;  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Things  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know. 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations  ;  and,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert. 
Thy  wish  accomplished  ;  dying  in  the  land 
Where  thy  young  mind  had  caught  ethereal  fire, 
Dying  in  Greece,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious  ! 

They,  in  thy  train — ah,  little  did  they  think. 
As  round  we  went,  that  they  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  Nation  mourn'd, 
Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song  ; 
That  they  so  soon  should  hear  the  minute-gun, 
As  morning  gleam'd  on  what  remained  of  thee 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  mountains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thou  art  gone ; 
And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave, 
Oh,  let  him  pause  !     For  who  among  us  all. 
Tried  as  thou  wert — even  from  thine  earliest  years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland  boy — 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame  ; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine 


ITALY. 


77 


Her  charmed  cup — ah,  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  err'd  as  much,  and  more  ? 

/ 

XX. 

FLORENCE. 

Of  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth 
None  are  so  fair  as  Florence.     'T  is  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray,  a  treasure  for  a  casket ! 
And  what  a  glorious  lustre  did  it  shed, 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness  !     Search  within, 
Without,  all  is  enchantment !     'T  is  the  past 
Contending  with  the  present ;  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

In  this  chapel  wrought^^ 
Massaccio  ;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  his  monument  ?    Look  round, 
And  know  that  where  we  stand,  stood  oft  and  long, 
Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  Raphael  himself. 
He  and  his  haughty  Rival — patiently, 
Humbly,  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before, 
To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs,  who  first  broke  the  gloom.  Sons  of  the 

Morning. 

There,  on  the  seat  that  runs  along  the  wall, 
South  of  the  Church,  east  of  the  belfry-tower 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it),  in  the  sultry  time 
Would  Dante  sit  conversing,  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assign'd  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world, 


78  ITALY. 

To  some  an  upper,  some  a  lower  region ; 

Reserving  in  his  secret  mind  a  niche 

For  thee,  Saltrello,  who  with  quirks  of  law 

Haclst  plagued  him  sore,  and  carefully  requiting 

Such  as  ere-long  condemn'd  his  mortal  part 

To  iire.^^     Sit  down  awhile— then  by  the  gates 

Wondrously  wrought,  so  beautiful,  so  glorious, 

That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

Enter  the  Baptistery.     That  place  he  loved, 

Calling  it  his  !     And  in  his  visits  there 

Well  mi^rht  he  take  delight !     For,  when  a  child, 

Playing,  w^ith  venturous  feet,  near  and  yet  nearer 

One  of  the  fonts,  fell  in,  he  flew  and  saved  him, 

Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence. 

That  broke  the  marble — a  mishap  ascribed 

To  evil  motives ;  his,  alas,  to  lead 

A  life  of  trouble,  and  ere-long  to  leave 

All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere-long  to  know 

How  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  how  toilsome 

The  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs. 

Nor  then  forget  the  Chamber  of  the  Dead,^* 
Where  the  gigantic  forms  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turn'd  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly, 
Yet  still  are  breathing  ;  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  two-fold  influence — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingled  each  with  each ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to  age, 
Two  Ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.     Mark  him  well.^'^ 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  scowls  beneath  his  broad  and  helm-like  bonnet  ? 


ITALY. 


79 


Is  it  a  faqe,  or  but  an  eyeless  skall  ? 

'T  is  hid  ill  shade  ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 

It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 

His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 

Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard, 

At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 

On  that  thrice-hallow'd  day,  when  all  are  there 

When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs, 

With  light,  and  frankincense,  and  holy  water, 

Visit  the  Dead.     Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power 

But  let  not  Sculpture,  Painting,  Poesy, 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  hoiunge  is  to  Virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  Citadel, 
(It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  wall  ^^ 
Cannot  be  gone — 'twas  cut  in  with  his  dagger, 
Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  he  slew  himself). 
Where,  in  what  dungeon,  did  Filippo  Strozzi, 
The  last,  the  greatest  of  the  Men  of  Florence, 
Breathe  out  his  soul — lest  in  his  agony. 
When  on  the  rack  and  call'd  upon  to  answer. 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless. 

That  debt  paid, 
But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty, 
We  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit — worshipping, 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,* 
Venus  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies 
Came  hither. 

*The  Tribune. 


80  ITALY. 

XXI. 

DON    GAKZIA. 

Among  the  awful  forms  that  stand  assembled  . 
In  the  great  square  of  Florence,  may  be  seen 
That  Cosmo,^^  not  the  Father  of  his  Country, 
Not  he  so  styled,  but  he  who  play'd  the  tyrant. 
Clad  in  rich  armour  like  a  paladin. 
But  with  his  helmet  off — in  kingly  state, 
Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass  ; 
And  they  who  read  the  legend  underneath, 
Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet  there  is 
A  Chamber  at  Grosseto,  that,  if  walls 
Could  speak,  and  tell  of  what  is  done  within. 
Would  turn  your  admiration  into  pity. 
Half  of  what  pass'd  died  with  him  ;  but  the  rest, 
All  he  discoverxl  when  the  fit  was  on. 
All  that,  by  those  who  listened,  could  be  glean'd 
From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 
is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler. 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garzia 

(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  sixteenth  summer), 

Went  to  the  chase  ;  but  one  of  them,  Giovanni, 

His  best  beloved,  the  glory  of  his  house, 

Return'd  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 

Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas  ! 

The  trembling  Cosmo  guess'd  the  deed,  the  doer; 

And  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 

In  secret  to  that  chamber — at  an  hour 

When  all  slept  sound,  save  the  disconsolate  Mother, *^^ 

*Eleonora  di  Toledo. 


ITALY.  81 

Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  come, 

And  lived  but  to  be  told — he  bade  G-arzia 

Arise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 

A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key, 

Massive  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  led  ; 

And,  having  enter'd  in  and  lock'd  the  door, 

The  father  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  the  son. 

And  closely  question'd  him.     No  change  betray'd 

Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  lifted  up 

The  bloody  sheet.    '*  Look  there  !  Look  there  !"  he 

cried, 
"  Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand  ! 
— Unless  thyself  will  save  him  that  sad  office. 
What!"  he  exclaim'd,  when,  shuddering  at  the  sight, 
The  boy  breath'd  out,  "  I  stood  but  on  my  guard." 
"  Barest  thou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wrons-'d 

thee, 
Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? — 
Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 
And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 
Then  from  Garzia's  side  he  took  the  dagger, 
That  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  "  G-reat  G-od!"  he 

cried, 
"  G-rant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  Justice. 
Thou  knowest  what  it  costs  me  ;  but,  alas. 
How  can  I  spare  myself,  sparing  none  else  ? 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will — and,  oh,  forgive 
The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wretched  son. 
'T  is  a  most  wretched  father  who  implores  it." 
Long  on  Garzia's  neck  he  hung,  and  wept 
Tenderly,  long  press'd  him  to  his  bosom ; 


82  .  ITALY. 

And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm, 
Thrusting  him  backward,  turn'd  away  his  face, 
And  stabb'd  him  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  De  Thou, 
When  in  his  youth  he  came  to  Cosmo's  court, 
Think  on  the  past;  and,  as  he  wander'd  through 
The  Ancient  Palace — through  those  ample  spaces, 
Silent,  deserted — stop  awhile  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love, 
One  in  a  Cardinal's  habit,  one  in  black, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  infer 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew, 
The  terrible  truth. 

Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 
That  very  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy,  and  deaf  and  inarticulate. 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess, 
In  the  last  stage — death-struck  and  deadly  pale ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  Eleonora, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 

XXII. 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE. 

'T  IS  morning.    Let  us  wander  through  the  fields, 
Where  Cimabue  found  a  shepherd-boy," 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground  ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 

*  Giotto. 


ITALY.  83 

Whence  Galileo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-colour"d  oxen 
Are  plowing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  One  of  Old  distinguish'd  as  The  Bride, 
Let  us  pursue  in  thought  (what  can  we  better  ?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-prayers  ;* 
Who,  when  Vice  revell'd,  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;^^and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly, 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof — day  after  day, 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  Cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care. 
Their  hundred  novels. 

Round  the  hill  they  went, 
Round  underneath^first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs. 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale ; 
A  place  for  Luxury — the  painted  rooms, 

*Sce  the  Decameron— First  Day. 


84 


ITALY. 


The  open  galleries  and  middle  conrt 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  wiili  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
Then  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri,  . 
Where  Art  with  Nature  vied — a  Paradise, 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellis'd  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  forest-vista 
Cross'd  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Yalley ; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  seem'd  as  by  enchantment 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold. 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day ; 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side,^ 
The  dance  that  follow'd,  and  the  noon-tide  slumber  ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring  ; 
And  the  short  interval  fill'd  up  with  games 
Of  Chess,  and  talk,  and  reading  old  Eomances, 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  syren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars,  and  in  the  grass  the  torches 
Burnt  brighter  for  their  absence. 

He,*  whose  dream 
It  w;as  (it  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  Yal  d'Elsa, 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where  (in  his  ear  I  ween) 
The  Friar  pour'd  out  his  catalogue  of  treasures  ; 
A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 
To  the  Wise  Men ;  a  phial-full  of  sounds, 

*  Boccaccio. 


I  T  A  L  Y. 

The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 
In  Solomon's  Temple  ;  and,  though  last  not  least, 
A  feather  from  the  Angel  Gabriel's  wing, 
Dropt  in  the  Virgin's  chamber. 

That  dark  ridge 
Stretching  away  in  the  South-east,  conceals  it ; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm, 
His  copse  and  rill,  and  yet  a  trace  be  left, 
Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 
Exile  and  want,  and  the  keen  shafts  of  Malice, 
With  an  unclouded  mind.*    The  glimmering  tower 
On  the  grey  rock  beneath,  his  land-mark  once, 
Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 
His  bread  with  cheerfulness. 

Who  sees  him  not 
('T  is  his  own  sketch — he  drew  it  from  himself) 
Playing  the  bird-catcher,  and  sallying  forth 
In  an  autumnal  morn,  laden  with  cages. 
To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there  ; 
Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters  ;    . 
Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 
At  tric-trac  with  the  miller  ;  or  at  night, 
Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad. 
Entering  his  closet,  and  among  his  books, 
Among  the  Oreat  of  every  age  and  clime, 
A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 
Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that, 
And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 
Of  poverty  and  death  ? 

Nearer  we  hail 

*  Machiavel. 


85 


8G  ITALY. 

Thy  sunny  slope,  Arcetri,  sung  of  Old 

For  its  green  wine — dearer  to  me,  to  most, 

As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  Astronomer,* 

Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city  gate, 

Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.     Sacred  be 

His  cottage  (justly  was  it  called  The  Jewel !) 

Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 

Glimmer'd,  at  blush  of  dawn  he  dress'd  his  vines, 

Chanting  aloud  in  gaiety  of  heart 

Some  verse  of  Ariosto.     There,  unseen, ^^ 

In  manly  beauty,  Milton  stood  before  him. 

Grazing  with  reverent  awe — Milton,  his  guest, 

Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 

Re  in  his  old  age  and  extremity, 

Blind  at  noon-day  exploring  with  his  staff ; 

His  eyes  upturn'd  as  to  the  golden  sun. 

His  eye-balls  idly  rolling.     Little  then 

Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  bade  welcome  ; 

That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

Who  could  requite  him — who  would  spread  his  name 

O'er  lands  and  seas — great  as  himself,  nay  greater ; 

Milton  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw. 

As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be, 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 

And  evil  tongues — so  soon,  alas,  to  live 

In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compass 'd  round. 

And  solitude. 

Well  pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  Arno,  from  his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 
So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's "^^ — springing  up 

*  Galileo. 


I  T  A  L  T. 


87 


From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
That  mountain-ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  Sea.     Downward  he  runs, 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate  wild 
Down  by  the  Cit}^  of  Hermits,  and  ere-long, 
The  venerable  woods  of  Yallombrosa  ; 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  Tuscan  sea, 
Eeflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  Rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
Florence  and  Pisa — who  have  given  him  fame, 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stain'd  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas,  were  seen. 
When  flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were  there, 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring  ;^^ 
The  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed, 
Borne  underneath — already  in  the  realms 
Of  Darkness. 

Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  Artist  saw,* 
Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  cry  "  To  arms  !" 
And  the  shrill  trumpet,  hurried  up  the  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide 
And  wash  from  their  unharness'd  limbs  the  blood 
And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush, 
Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew  ; 
Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  feature. 
Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on 
Morion  and  greave  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 
As  for  his  life — no  more  perchance  to  taste, 

*  Michael  Angelo. 


88 


ITALY. 


Arno,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades, 
Thy  waters — where,  exulting,  he  had  felt 
A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas,  to  float 
And  welter.     Nor  between  the  gusts  of  War, 
When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's  pipe 
Gladden'd  the  valle}^,  when,  but  not  unarm'd, 
The  sower  came  forth,  and,   following  him  who 

plow'd, 
Threw  in  the  seed — did  thv  indis-nant  waves 
Escape  pollution.     Sullen  was  the  splash, 
Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 
The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 
Of  Ugolino — closing  up  for  ever 
That  dismal  dungeon  henceforth  to  be  named 
The  Tower  of  Famine. 

Once  indeed  't  was  thine 
When  many  a  winter-flood,  thy  tributary, 
Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding. 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 
A  charge  most  precious.     To  the  nearest  ford. 
Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  came, 
Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 
Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff 
That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.     He  spurs. 
He  enters ;  and  his  horse,  alarm'd,  perplex'd, 
Halts  in  the  midst.     Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife ; 
And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea, 
The  babe  is  floating  !    Fast  and  far  he  flies  ; 
Now  tempest-rock'd,  now  whirling  round  and  round 
But  not  to  perish.     By  thy  willing  waves 
Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes, 
The  ark  has  rested  j  and  unhurt,  secure, 


ITALY.  89 

As  on  his  motlier's  breast  he  sleeps  within, 
All  peace  !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 
That  voice  so  sweet,  which  still  enchants,  inspires  ; 
That  voice,  which  snng  of  love,  of  liberty. 

Petrarch  lay  there  ! And  such  the  images 

That  cluster'd  round  our  Milton,  when  at  eve 
Eeclined  beside  thee,  Arno  ;  when  at  eve 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wander'd  with  delight, 
Framing  Ovidian  verse,  and  through  thy  groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.     Such  the  Poet's  dreams  ; 
Yet  not  such  only.     For  look  round  and  say. 
Where  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  warm  blood. 
The  echo  that  had  learnt  not  to  articulate 
The  crj^  of  murder  ? — Fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when  ('twas  in  a  street  behind 
The  church  and  convent  of  the  Holy  Cross — 
There  is  the  house — that  house  of  the  Donati, 
Towerless,  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Braving  assault — all  rugged,  all  emboss'd 
Below,  and  still  distinguish'd  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival-time 
Their  fixmily-standards)  fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when,  at  morn,  at  the  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  Dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
"Weeds  to  be  worn  hereafter  by  so  many, 
Stood  at  her  door  ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 
Her  dazzling  spell.     Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 
Rich  in  a  hidden  pearl  of  heavenl}^  light, 
Her  daughter's  beauty  ;  and  too  well  she  knew 
Its  virtue  !     Patiently  she  stood  and  watch'd  ; 
Nor  stood  alone — but  spoke  not. — In  her  breast 
Her  purpose  lay  ;  and,  as  a  youth  pass'd  by, 


90  ITALY. 

Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said, 

Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 

"  This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 

This  hast  thou  lost !  "    He  gazed  and  was  undone  ! 

Forgetting — not  forgot — he  broke  the  bond, 

And  paid  the  penaltj^,  losing  his  life 

At  the  bridge-foot  ;**  and  hence  a  world  of  woe  ! 

Vengeance  for  vengeance  crying,  blood  for  blood  ; 

No  intermission  !     Law,  that  slumbers  not, 

And,  like  the  Angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 

Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healing. 

Himself  the  Avenger,  went  ;  and  every  street 

Ean  red  with  mutual  slaughter — though  sometimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt. 

And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  thee,  Imelda, 

Thee  and  thy  Paolo.     When  last  ye  met 

In  that  still  hour  (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone, 

Not  so  the  splendour — through  the  cedar-grove 

A  radiance  stream'd  like  a  consuming  fire, 

As  though  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent, 

Had  come  and  rested  there),  when  last  ye  met, 

And  those  relentless  brothers  dragg'd  him  forth, 

It  had  been  well,  hadst  thou  slept  on,  Imelda,*^ 

Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 

Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead, 

To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find, 

Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 

A  sign,  if  5^et  thou  couldst  (alas,  thou  couldst  not), 

And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of— ^from  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison. ^^ 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came  , 

Worse  follow'd.'^^     G-enius,  Yalour  left  the  land,         m 


ITALY. 


91 


Indignant — all  that  had  from  age  to  age 
Adorn'd,  ennobled ;  and  headlong  they  fell, 
Tyrant  and  slave.     For  deeds  of  violence, 
Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  half-redeem'd 
By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 
Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl, 
The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 
Unnoticed,  in  slouch'd  hat  and  muffling  cloak, 
That  just  discover'd,  Caravaggio-like, 
A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame, 
The  Bravo  took  his  stand,  and  o'er  the  shoulder 
Plunged  to  the  hilt,  or  from  beneath  the  ribs 
Slanting  (a  surer  path,'  as  some  averr'd) 
Struck  upward — then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued, 
Made  for  the  Sanctuary,  and  there  along 
The  glimmering  aisle  among  the  worshippers 
Wander'd  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look, 
Dropping  thick  gore. 

Misnamed  to  lull  suspicion. 
In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory, 
Where  he  within  brew'd  poisons  swift  and  slow, 
That  scatter'd  terror  till  all  things  seem'd  poisonous, 
And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 
A  nosegay  or  a  letter  ;  while  the  Great 
Drank    from    the    Yenice-glass,     that    broke,    that 

shiver'd 
If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  thine  was  there. 
Cruel  Tophana  ;^^  and  pawn'd  provinces 
For  the  miraculous  gem  that  to  the  wearer 
Gave  signs  infallible  of  coming  ill. 
That  clouded  throusrh  the  vehicle  of  death 
Were  an  invisible  perfume. 


92 


ITALY. 


Happy  then 
The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping- time  't  was  said, 
But  in  an  under-voice  (a  lady's  page 
Spealis  in  no  louder)  "  Pass* not  on.     That  door 
Leads  to  another  which  awaits  your  coming, 
One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas,  unbolted. 
No  eye  detects  it — lying  under-foot, 
Just  as  you  enter,  at  the  threshold-stone  ; 
Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  you  into  darkness, 
Darkness  and  long  oblivion  !  " 

Then  indeed 
Where  lurk'd  not  danger  ?     Through  the  fairy  land 
No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  half-way  down. 
No  hunting-place — but  with  some  damning  spot 
That  will  not  be  wash'd  out !     There,  at  Caiano, 
Where,  when  the  hawks  were  hooded  and  Night 

came, 
Pulci  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar 
With  his  wild  lay — there  where  the  Sun  descends. 
And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veil'd  with  his  beams, 
The  fair  Yenetian'''  died — she  and  her  lord, 
Died  of  a  posset  drugg'd  by  him  who  sate 
And  saw  them  suffer,  flinging  back  the  charge, 
The  murderer  on  the  murder 'd. 

Sobs  of  Grief, 
Sounds  inarticulate — suddenly  stopt. 
And  followed  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 
A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 
Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases. 
Nightly  at  twelve  ;  and,  at  the  self-same  hour, 

*  Bianca  Capello. 


93 


ITALY. 

Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul, 
Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long, 
Long  wailing,  echo  through  the  emptiness 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills, '^^ 
Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala ; 
In  them,  in  both,  within  five  days  and  less, 
Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair, 
Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly, 
One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fatal  noose. 


But  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting  ;  earth  and  sky 
One  blaze  of  glory — What  but  now  we  saw 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been  ! 
He  lingers  yet,  and,  lessening  to  a  point, 
Shines  like  the  eve  of  Heaven — then  withdraws  ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red  !     The  hour  is  come. 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas 
Lansfuish  for  home  ;  and  thev  that  in  the  morn 
Said  to  sweet  friends  "farewell,"  melt  as  at  parting  ; 
When,  journeying  on,  the  pilgrim,  as  he  hears, 
As  now  we  hear  it,  echoing  round  the  hill, 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  dying  day, 
Slackens  his  pace  and  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
Loves. more  than  ever.     But  who  feels  it  not? 
And  well  may  we,  for  w^e  are  far  away. 
Let  us  retire,  and,  hail  it  in  our  hearts. 


ITALY, 


PART  II. 


THE   PILGEIM. 

It  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 
Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  he  came  ; 
The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path, 
His  radiant  wings  unfolded.     From  below 
The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively  ; 
And  odours,  such  as  welcome  in  the  dav, 
Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller, 
And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last, 
Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight 
And  not  a  living  thing  but  bless'd  the  hour ! 
In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 
Responsive  ! 

From  the  Thrasvmene,  that  now 
Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 
Rock'd  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 
The  rage,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turn'd  away ; 
The  path,  that  led  me,  leading  through  a  wood, 


ITALY. 

A  fairy-wilderness  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  by  a  brook  that,  in  the  day  of  strife, 
Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber — when  a  glade 
Far,  far  within,  sunn'd  only  at  noon-day, 
Suddenly  open'd.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 
Each  round  its  ancient  elm  ;   and  many  a  track, 
Well  known  to  them  that  from  the  highway  loved 
Awhile  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 
Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood. 
Solemn,  severe  ;  coeval  with  the  trees 
That  round  it  in  majestic  order  rose  ; 
And  on  the  lowest  step  a  Pilgrim  knelt. 
Clasping  his  hands  in  prayer.     He  was  the  first 
Yet  seen  by  me  (save  in  a  midnight-masque, 
A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part, 
And  they,  that  speak,  at  once  dissolve  the  charm), 
The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit ; 
And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid, 
He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont, 
A  traveller's  greeting. 

Young  and  of  an  age 
When  Youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 
Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  if  I  err  not, 
From  some  attendant  Spirit,  that  ere-long 
(His  charge  relinquished  with  a  sigh,  a  tear) 
Wings  his  flight  upward — with  a  look  he  won 
My  favour  ;  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 
I  could  not  but  continue. 

"Whence,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Whence  art  thou?  " — "  From  Mont'  alto,"  he  re- 
plied, 
"My  native  village  in  the  Apennines." 


95 


96  ITALY. 

"  And  whither  journeying  ?  " — "  To  the  holy  shrinq 
Of  Saint  Antonio,  in  the  City  of  Padua. 
Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 
Thou  wilt  direct  my  course." — "  Most  willingly  ; 
But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure, 
Ere  thou  hast  enter'd  where  the  silver  lamps 
Burn  ever.     Tell  me — I  would  not  transgress, 
Yet  ask  I  must — what  could  have  brought  thee 

forth  • 
Nothing  in  act  or  thought  to  be  atoned  for?'" — 
"It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  mv  distress. 
We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we, 
Till  Sickness  came.     First,  as  death-struck,  I  fell; 
Then  my  beloved  sister  ;  and  ere-long. 
Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day, 
Our  saint-like  mother.    Worse  and  worse  she  grew. 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  vow'd. 
That  if  she  lived,  if  Heaven  restored  her  to  us, 
I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  Pilgrim's  weeds, 
Yisit  that  holy  shrine.     M}''  vow  was  heard  ; 
And  therefore  am  I  come." — "Thou  hast  done  well. 
And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old. 
Guard  thee  in  danger !  " — 

"  They  are  nothing  worth. 
But  thev  are  worn  in  humble  confidence : 
Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign  them, 
Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  well, 
Lauretta  and  my  sister  ;  theirs  the  task, 
But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight. 
To  ply  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 
As  best  became  this  service.     Their  last  words, 
'  Fare  thee  well,  Carlo.    We  shall  count  the  hours ! ' 


ITALY.  97 

Will  not  go  from  me." — 

' '  Health  and  strength  be  thine 
In  thy  long  travel !     May  no  sun-beam  strike  ; 
No  vapour  cling  and  wither !     Mayest  thou  be, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  sacred  and  secure ! 
And,  when  again  thou  comest,  thy  labour  done, 
Joy  be  among  ye  !     In  that  happy  hour 
All  will  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome,  Carlo  ; 
And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived. 
One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last." — 
"  Oh,  she  is  true  as  Truth  itself  can  be  ! 
But  ah,  thou  knowest  her  not.     Would  that  thou 

couldst ! 
My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her  ; 
For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 
I  shall  return  the  sooner. 

II. 

AN  INTEEVIEW. 

Pleasure,  that  comes  unlook'd-for,  is  thrice  wel- 
come ; 
And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there, 
That  mav  hereafter  in  a  thouo;htful  hour 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  't  is  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious  ;  and  the  day  it  came, 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the  cliffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 
(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice, 
Thy  voice,  Yelino,  utter'd  in  the  mist) 


98  ITALY. 

Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 
For  others  still  as  noon  ;  and  on  we  strav'd 
From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 
Seen  up  or  down,  no  bush  or  green  or  dry, 
That  ancient  symbol  at  the  cottage-door, 
Offering  refreshment — when  Luigi  cried, 
"  Well,  of  a  thousand  tracks  we  chose  the  best !  " 
And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once, 
Now  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thoroughfare 
For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch, 
"Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 
Had  issued,  many  a  gips}^  and  her  brood 
Peer'd  forth,  then  housed  again — the  floor  yet  grey 
With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 
Loosely  with  locks  of  hair — I  look'd  and  saw 
What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sanclio  Panza, 
Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 
His  cheeks  a  flush  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 
Unknown  before,  had  chained  him  to  the  spot, 
And  thou,  Sir  Knight,  hadst  traversed  hill  and  dale 
Squire-less. 

Below  and  winding  far  away, 
A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring 
Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is  high. 
The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 
The  silvery  dews.     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 
Singly  their  length  of  shadow,  chequering 
The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent  tufts. 
An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 
Sent  up  a  gale  of  fragrance.     Through  the  midst. 
Reflecting,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold, 
A  rainbow's  splendour  (somewhere  in  the  east 


I  T  A  L  Y.  99 

Rain-drops  were  falling  fast),  a  rivulet 
Sported  as  loth  to  go  ;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both, 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  snmpter-mule 
Well  laden,  while  two  menials,  as  in  haste, 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Yiands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver, 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 
Flasks  of  delicious  wine. 

Anon  a  horn 
Blew,  through  the  champaign  bidding  to  the  feast, 
Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  address'd. 
Not  ours  ;  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path. 
That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex-grove, 
Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 
Distinguished  only  by  a  fresher  verdure. 
Peasants  approach'd,  one  leading  in  a  leash 
Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various  game 
In  rich  confusion  slung,  before,  behind, 
Leveret  and  quail  and  pheasant.    All  announced 
The  chase  as  over  ;  and  ere-long  appear'd 
Their  horses  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb, 
For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank, 
Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 
Their  plumage  waving  as  instinct  with  life  ; 
A  Lady  young  and  graceful,  and  a  Youth, 
Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove, 
As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time, 
His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air, 
Or  fairy-vision,  such  as  feign'd  of  old. 
The  Lady,  while  her  courser  paw'd  the  ground, 
Alighted  ;  and  her  beauty,  as  she  trod 


100 


ITALY. 


The  enamell'd  bank,  bruising  nor  herb  nor  flower, 
That  place  illumined. 

Ah,  who  should  she  be, 
And  with  her  brother,  as  when  last  we  met, 
(When  the  first  lark  had  sung  ere  half  was  said, 
And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice, 
So  sweet  it  was,  recall'd  me  like  a  spell) 
Who  but  Angelica  ? 

That  day  we  gave 
To  Pleasure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight, 
Another  and  another  ;  hers  a  home 
Dropt  from  the  sl^y  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 
Loretto-like.     The  rising  moon  we  hail'd 
Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibule 
Of  many  an  arch,  o'erwrought  and  lavishly 
With  many  a  wildering  dream  of  sylphs  and  flowers. 
When  Eaphael  and  his  school  from  Florence  came. 
Filling  the  land  with  splendour — nor  less  oft 
Watch'd  her,  declining,  from  a  silent  dell, 
Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 
Tasso,  Guarini,  waved  their  wizard-wands, 
Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and  lo, 
Fair  forms  appear'd,  murmuring  melodious  verse^ 
— Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre, 
Mossy  the  seiats,  the  stage  a  verdurous  floor, 
The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  Nature's  own  ; 
Nature  the  Architect. 

III. 
ROME. 

I  AM  in  Rome  !     Oft  as  the  morning-ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 


ITALY.  101 

Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?  What  has  befallen  me  ? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 
Thou  art  in  Eome!     A  thousand  busy  thoughts, 
Rush  on  ray  mind,  a  thousand  images ; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race! 

Thou  art  in  Rome !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reign "d  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw. 
And  trembled  ;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least. 
The  lowliest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roof  d  cabin  by  a  river-side?) 
Grew  into  everything ;  and  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea. 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveller  with  staff  and  scrip  exploring, 
But  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot,  through  hosts. 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle-array. 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell, 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  all. 

Thou  art  in  Rome!  the  City,  where  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sun- rise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate, 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  Gods,  not  men  ) 
The  City  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  tower'd  above  the  clouds, 
Then  fell — but  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat, 
And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe. 
Where  nov/  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild, 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age, 


102  ITALY. 

Her  empire  undiminisli'd. 

There,  as  though 
Grandeur  attracted  Grandeur,  are  beheld 
All  things  that  strike,  ennoble — from  the  depths 
Of  Egypt,  from  the  classic  fields  of  Greece, 
Her  groves,  her  temples — all  things  that  inspire 
Wonder,  deli^rht !   Who  would  not  sav  the  Forms 
Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 
Flock'd  thither  to  abide  eternally, 
Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell, 
In  happy  intercourse? 

And  I  am  there! 
Ah,  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sate, 
A  school-boy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian,^°  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces. 
Their  doors  seal'd  up  and  silent  as  the  niglit. 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead^ — to  turn 
Toward  Tiber,  and,  beyond  the  City-gate, 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse. 
Where  on  his  mule  I  mi2,'ht  have  met  so  oft 
Horace  himself^^ — or  climb  the  Palatine, 
Dreaming  of  old  Evander  and  his  guest, 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Longwhile  the  seat  of  Rome,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engendered  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness  f  and,  the  summit  gain'd, 
Inscribe  ray  name  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf, 

*  Nero. 


ITALY. 


103 


That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  walls 
Where  Virgil  read  aloud  his  tale  divine, 
Where  his  voice  falter'd,  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight ! 

But  what  a  narrow  space 
Just  underneath !    In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  though  Ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  his  utmost.     Here  and  there  appears, 
As  left  to  show  his  handy-work  not  ours, 
An  idle  column,  a  half-buried  arch, 
A  wall  of  some  great  temple. 

■  It  was  once, 
And  long,  the  centre,  of  their  Universe, ^^ 
The  Forum — whence  a  mandate,  eagle-wing'd, 
Went  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.     Let  us  descend 
Slowly.     At  every  step  much  may  be  lost ; 
The  very  dust  we  tread,  stirs  as  with  life ; 
And  not  the  lightest  breath  that  sends  not  up 
Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 
Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 
In  terrible  conflict ;  this,  while  Rome  was  free, 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  Heaven! 

Here  the  first  Brutus  stood,  when  o'er  the  corse 
Of  her  so  chaste  all  mourn'd,  and  from  his  cloud 
Burst  like  a  God.     Here,  holding  up  the  knife, 
That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  child, 
Yirginius  call'd  down  vengeance. — But  whence  spoke 
They  who  harangued  the  people  ;  turning  now 
To  the  twelve  tables, ^^  now  with  lifted  hands 
To  the  Oapitoline  Jove,  whose  fulgent  shape 
In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  off, 


104 


ITALY. 


And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount 
Seem'd  like  a  star  new-risen?   Where  were  ranged 
In  rough  array  as  on  their  element, 
The  beaks  of  those  old  galleys,  destined  still  * 
To  brave  the  brunt  of  war — at  last  to  know 
A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death  ? 
All  spiritless  ;  from  that  disastrous  hour 
When  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,t 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break, 
Fell  on  his  sword  ! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way 
Hither  the  Triumph  came,  and  winding  round 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopt  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appear'd, 
Then  through  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  star-bright, 
As  though  it  led  to  heaven.    'T  was  night,  but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day, 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springing  from  his  seat. 
Went  up,  and  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 
Enter'd  the  Capitol.     But  what  are  they, 
Who  at  the  foot  withdraw,  a  mournful  train 
In  fetters  ?     And  who,  yet  incredulous, 
Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons. 
On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see," 
Staggers  along,  the  last? — They  are  the  fallen, 
Those  who  were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot- wheels  ; 
And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides, 
The  victor  and  the  vanquish'd — there  withdrew ; 
He  to  the  festal-board,  and  they  to  die. 

*  Tlio  Rostra.  f  Marcos  Junius  Brutus. 


I  T  A  T,  Y.  1 05 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world, 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously. 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less. 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to  look, 
To  think  that  way !     Well  might  they  in  their  state 
Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this ! 

Here  Cincinnatus  pass'd,  his  plow  the  while 
Left  in  the  furrow,  and  how  many  more. 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,  who  still  walk  the  earth, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  in  Curule  pomp 
Sit  and  decide ;  and,  as  of  old  in  Rome, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds,  he  whom  the  phalanx  saved 

not,* 
The  last  on  Philip's  throne  ;  and  the  Numidian.f 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stript  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakedness 
Thrust  under-ground,  "How  cold  this  bath  of 

yours !" 
And  thy  proud  queen.  Palmyra,  through  the  sands  J 
Pursued,  o'ertaken  on  her  dromedary : 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  away,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death,  and  escaped  ;  the  Eygyptian,  when  her  asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf;  § 
And  Hannibal  himself;  and  she  who  said, 
Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands,  |1 

♦Perseus.       fJugurtha.       :j:  Zenobia.       §  Cleopatra.        |I  Sophonisba. 


106 


I  T  A  L  y 


"  Tell  liim  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday  ; 
For  then  it  had  not  been  his  nuptial  gift.'' 

Now  all  is  changed  ;  and  here,  as  in  the  wild, 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd, 
Savage  alike  ;  or  they  that  would  explore, 
Discuss  and  learnedly  ;  or  they  that  come, 
(And  there  are  many  who  have  cross'd  the  earth) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation, 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves, 
"This  was  the  Roman  Forum!" 

IV. 
A    FUNERAL. 

"Whence   this    dela}' ?''"  Along    the    crowded 
street 
A  Funeral  comes,  and  with  unusual  pomp." 
So  1  withdrew  a  little,  and  stood  still, 
AVhile  it  went  by.     "  She  died  as  she  deserved," 
Said  an  Abate,  gathering  up  his  cloak. 
And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 
Flow'd  more  and  more. — "  But  she  was  beautiful ! "' 
Replied  a  soldier  of  the  Pontiffs  guard. 
"And  innocent  as  beautiful!"  exclaim'd 
A  Matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 
With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not  ? 
Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  display 'd 
In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke  ; 
And  I  nccosted  her  to  hear  her  storv. 
"The  stab,"  she  cried,  "  was  given  in  jealousy  ; 
But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven, 


ITALY. 


107 


As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much  my  miud  misleads, 
When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at  dusk, 
When  on  her  way  from  vespers — None  were  near, 
None  save  her  serving-bo,y,  who  knelt  and  wept, 
But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell — 
Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine, 
Just  by  the  fountain — that  before  the  church, 
The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidore's — 
Alas,  I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth. 
That  excellent  lady.     Ever  would  she  say. 
Good  even,  as  she  pass'd,  and  with  a  voice 
Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven!'' — But  now  by  fits 
A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assail'd  the  ear, 
A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet ; 
And  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appear'd  ! 
Thronging  they  came — as  from  the  shades  below ; 
AH  of  a  ghostly  white  !     "  Oh,  say,"  I  cried, 
"  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 
Do  Spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?     What  are  these. 
That  seem  not  of  this  World,  and  mock  the  Day  ; 
Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ?" — 
"  It  is  an  ancient  Brotherhood  thou  seest. 
Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  line 
Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man  ; 
The  living  mask"d,  the  dead  alone  uncover'd. 
But  mark  !" — And,  lying  on  her  funeral-couch. 
Like  one  asleep,  her  eye-lids  closed,  her  hands 
Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast. 
As  't  were  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 
She  came  at  last — and  richly,  gaily  clad, 
As  for  a  birth-day  feast !     But  breathes  she  not  ? 
A  glow  is  on  her  cheek — and  her  lips  move ! 


108 


ITALY. 


And  now  a  smile  is  there — how  heavenly  sweet! 
"  Oh  no !"  replied  the  Dame,  wiping  her  tears, 
But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 
"  No,  she  will  never,  never  wake  again !" 

Death,  when  we  meet  the  spectre  in  our  walks, 
As  we  did  yesterdaj',  and  shall  to-morrow, 
Soon  grows  familiar — like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed  ;  but  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Changing  his  shape  to  something  new  and  strange 
(And  through  the  world  he  changes  as  in  sport. 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humility), 
Knocks  at  the  heart.     His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom, 
A  sadness  round  ;  j^'et  one  I  would  not  lose  ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  things  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadows,  where  we  live 
More  in  past  time  than  present,  where  the  ground 
League  beyond  league,  like  one  great  cemetery. 
Is  cover'd  o'er  with  mouldering  monuments  ; 
And,  let  the  living  wander  where  they  will, 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

Oft,  where  the  burial-rite  follows  so  fast, 
The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far. 
Must  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child 
(Him  who  at  parting  climb'd  his  knees  and  clung), 
Claj'-cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 
"  Stand,  I  conjure  ye  !" 

Seen  thus  destitute, 
What  are  the  greatest  ?     They  must  speak  beyond 
A  thousand  homilies.     Wlien  Raphael  went, 


ITALY. 


109 


His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind, 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  to  and  inhabit — when  He  went, 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak,  the  cloak  he  wore, 
.  To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  Dome,* 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved. 
Had  worshipp'd,  following  in  his  steps  to  Fame 
(T  was  on  an  April-day,  when  Nature  smiles), 
All  Rome  was  there.     But,  ere  the  march  began. 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came. 
Who  had  not  souglit  him  ?     And  when  all  beheld 
Him,  where  he  lay,  how  changed  from  yesterday, 
Him  in  that  hour  cut  off,  and  at  his  head 
His  last  great  work  ;  when,  entering  in,  they  look'd 
Now  on  the  dead,  now  on  that  master-piece, 
Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colourless. 
Then  on  those  forms  divine  that  lived  and  breathed, 
And  would  live  on  for  ages  —  all  were  moved  ; 
And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 

Y. 

NATIONAL  PREJUDICES. 

"Another  Assassination!  This  venerable  City," 
I  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it,  but  as  it  began,  a  nest  of 
robbers  and  murderers  ?  We  must  away  at  sun-rise, 
Luid."  But  before  sun-rise  I  had  reflected  a  little, 
and  in  the  soberest  prose.  My  indignation  was  gone  : 
and  when  Luigi  undrew  my  curtain,  crying,  "  Up, 
Signor,  up!  The  horses  are  at  the  door." — "Luigi," 
I  replied,  "If  thou  lovest  me,  draw  the  curtain. "f 

*  The  Pantheon. 

f  A  dialogue  which  is  said  to  have  passed  many  years  ago  at  Lyons  (Mem. 


110  ITALY. 

It  would  lessen  very  much  the  seventy  with  which 
men  judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would  but  trace  effects 
to  their  causes,  and  observe  the  progress  of  things  in 
the  moral,  as  accurately  as  in  the  physical  world.  When 
we  condemn  millions  in  the  mass  as  vindictive  and  san- 
guinary, we  should  remember  that,  wherever  Justice  is 
ill-administered,  the  injured  will  redress  themselves. 
Robbery  provokes  to  robbery  ;  murder  to  assassination. 
Resentments  become  hereditary ;  and  what  began  in 
disorder,  ends  as  if  all  Hell  had  broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only  by 
the  influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its  exercise 
the  passion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe  the  bad  by 
the  prospect  of  a  punishment  certain  and  well-defined, 
they  console  the  injured  by  the  infliction  of  that  pun- 
ishment ;  and,  as  the  infliction  is  a  public  act,  it  excites 
and  entails  no  enmity.  The  laws  are  offended ;  and 
the  community,  for  its  own  sake,  pursues  and  over- 
takes thie  offender  ;  often  without  the  concurrence  of 
the  sufferer,  sometimes  against  his  wishes. 

Now  those  who  were  not  born,  like  ourselves,  to 
such  advantages,  we  should  surely  rather  pity  than 
hate  ;  and,  when  at  length  they  venture  to  turn  against 
their  rulers,*  we  should  lament,   not  wonder  at  their 


do  Grammont,  I,  3.)  and  which  may  still  be  heard  in   almost  every  hotellerie  at 
day-break. 

*  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  lately  done.  Can  it  be  be- 
lieved that  there  are  many  among  us,  who,  from  a  desire  to  be  thought  superior 
to  commonplace  sentiments  and  vulgar  feelings,  aftect  an  indifEerence  to  their 
causel  "If  tho  Greeks,"  they  say,  "had  tlie  probity  of  other  nations— but, 
they  are  false  to  a  proverb !  "  And  is  not  falscliood  the  characteristic  of  slaves? 
Man  is  tho  creature  of  circumstances.  Free,  he  has  tho  qualities  of  a  freeman; 
enslaved,  those  of  a  slave. 


ITALY.  Ill 

excesses ;  remembering  that  nations  are  naturally 
patient  and  long-suffering,  and  seldom  rise  in  rebellion 
till  they  are  so  degraded  by  a  bad  government  as  to 
be  almost  incapable  of  a  good  one. 

"Hate  them,  perhaps,"  you  may  say,  "we  should 
not ;  but  despise  them  we  must,  if  enslaved,  like  the  peo- 
ple of  Rome,  in  mind  as  well  as  body  ;  if  their  religion 
be  a  gross  and  barbarous  superstition." — I  respect  know- 
ledge ;  but  I  do  not  despise  ignorance.  They  think 
only  as  their  fathers  thought,  worship  as  they  worship- 
ped. They  do  no  more  ;  and  if  ours  had  not  burst 
their  bondage,  braving  imprisonment  and  death,  might 
not  we  at  this  very  moment  have  been  exhibiting,  in 
our  streets  and  our  churches,  the  same  processions, 
ceremonials,  and  mortifications  ? 

Nor  should  we  require  from  those  who  are  in  an 
earlier  stage  of  society,  what  belongs  to  a  later.  They 
are  only  where  we  once  were  ;  and  why  hold  them  in 
derision?  It  is  their  business  to  cultivate  the  inferior 
arts  before  the}^  think  of  the  more  refined ;  and  in  many 
of  the  last  what  are  we  as  a  nation,  when  compared  to 
others  that  have  passed  away?  Unfortunately,  it  is 
too  much  the  practice  of  governments  to  nurse  and 
keep  alive  in  the  governed  their  national  prejudices. 
It  withdraws  their  attention  from  what  is  passing  at 
home,  and  makes  them  better  tools  in  the  hands  of 
Ambition.  Hence  next-door  neighbours  are  held  up 
to  us  from  our  childhood  as  natural  enemies;  and  we 
are  urged  on  like  curs  to  worry  each  other."'' 

*  Candor,  generosity,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world ;  and  how  much  is  to  be 
deplored  the  want  of  theml  When  a  minister  in  our  parliament  consents  at  last 
to  a  measure,  which,  for  many  reasons  perhaps  existing  no  longer,  he  had  before 


112  ITALY. 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  be  just  to  individ- 
uals. Who  can  say,  "  In  such  circumstances  I  should 
have  done  otherwise?"  Who,  did  he  but  reflect  by 
what  slow  gradations,  often  by  how  many  strange  con- 
currences, we  are  led  astray  ;  with  how  much  reluctance, 
how  much  agony,  how  many  efforts  to  escape,  how 
many  self-accusations,  how  many  sighs,  how  many  tears 
— Who,  did  he  but  reflect  for  a  moment,  would  have 
the  heart  to  cast  a  stone  ?  Fortunately,  these  things 
are  known  to  Him,  from  whom  no  secrets  are  hidden  ; 
and  let  us  rest  in  the  assurance  that  his  judgments  are 
not  as  ours  are. 


YI. 

THE    CAMPAGNA    OF    KOME. 

Have  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground, 
None  since  They  went — as  though  it  still  were  theirs, 
And  they  might  come  and  claim  their  own  again  ? 
Was  the  last  plow  a  Roman's  ? 

From  this  Seat, 
Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  Yirgil  sings. 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky, 
Look'd  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array,* 
Let  us  contemplate  ;  and,  where  dreams  from  Jove 
Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where  perhaps 

refused  to  adopt,  there  should  be  no  exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no  taunt,  no 
jeer.     How  often  may  the  resistance  bo  continued  lest  an  enemy  should  triumph, 
and  the  result  of  conviction  be  received  as  a  symptom  of  fear! 
*  .(Eneid,  lii.  134. 


ITALY. 


113 


Some  inspirations  may  be  lingering  still, 

Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  or  the  past, 

Await  their  influence  ;  silently  revolving 

The  changes  from  that  hour,  when  He  from  Troy 

Went  up  the  Tiber  ;  when  refulgent  shields, 

No  strangers  to  the  iron-hail  of  war, 

Stream'd  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were  heard 

Among  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was  lying, 

His  antlers  gay  with  flowers  ;  among  those  woods 

Where,  by  the  Moon,  that  saw  and  yet  withdrew  not, 

Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain, 

Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  in  their  death 

Divided. 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discern'd, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 
Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power, 
Its  little  rivalships  !     What  various  turns 
Of  fortune  there  ;  what  moving  accidents 
From  ambuscade  and  open  violence  ! 
Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up  ;  and  hence  how  oft 
We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below, 
Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,  the  men  of  Tibur  f 
Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin, 
Some  embassy  ascending  to  Prasneste  ;t 
How  oft  descried,  without  thy  gates,  Aricia,  J 
Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice. 
Senate  and  People ! — Each  a  busy  hive, 
Glowing  with  life! 

But  all  ere-long  are  lost 
In  one.     We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 

*  Tivoli.  +  Palestrina.  f  La  Riccia. 


114  ITALY. 

Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 

A  City,  girt  witli  battlements  and  towers, 

On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.     Round  about, 

At  rural  work,  the  Citizens  are  seen, 

None  unemploy'd;  the  noblest  of  them  all 

Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing-floors. 

As  though  they  had  not  conquer'd.     Everywhere 

Some  trace  of  valour  or  heroic  virtue  ! 

Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  Horatii, 

There  are  the  Quintian  meadows.     Here  the  hill ''' 

How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice. 

Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate 

Arm'd  ;  and,  their  wrongs  redress'd,  at  once  gave 

way. 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown 

down. 
And  every  hand  uplifted,  every  heart 
Pour'd  out  in  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Once  again 
We  look  ;  and  lo,  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold ;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glor}^ ;  temples,  palaces, 
Caird  up  as  by  enchantment ;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  over-head; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning-sun, 
The  Imperial  City  !     They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.     But  where  thev  who  led  them  forth  : 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory, 

*  Moris  Saccr. 


I  T  A  L  Y. 


115 


(Buckler  and  spear  hung  up — but  not  to  rust) 
Held  poverty  no  evil,  no  reproach, 
Living  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 
The  Decii,  the  Fabricii?     Where  the  spade 
And  reaping-hook,  among  their  household-things 
Duly  transmitted  ?     In  the  hands  of  men 
Made  captive ;  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
Reclining,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim, 
Summer  and  winter,  through  the  circling  year, 
On  the  Falernian — in  the  hands  of  men 
Dragg'd  into  slavery,  with*  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle, 
In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
To  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  to  sink, 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear, 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 

But  their  days. 
Their  hours  are  number'd.     Hark,  a  yell,  a  shriek, 
A  barbarous  dissonance,  loud  and  yet  louder, 
That  echoes  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud. 
The  battle  moving  onward  !     Had  they  slain 
All,  that  the  earth  should  from  her  womb  bring 

forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them?     From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore, 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice,  as  though  in  ice 
Engendered,  multiplied,  they  pour  along, 
Shaggy  and  huge  !     Host  after  host,  they  come ; 
The  Goth,  the  Yandal  ;  and  again  the  Groth  1 
Once  more  we  look,  and  all  is  still  as  night, 


116 


1  T  A  L  Y. 


All  desolate  !     Groves,  temples,  palaces, 
Swept  from  the  sight,  and  nothing  visible, 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapours  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accurst,  save  here  and  there 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  dismeniber'd  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  City  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crown 'd 
With  many  a  cross ;  but  they,  that  issue  forth, 
Wander  like  strangers  who  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless  ; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
Ca3sar  and  Cato,  and  men  more  than  kings, 
We  meet,  none  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 

VII. 

THE  KOMAN  PONTIFFS. 

Those  ancient  men,  what  were  they,  who  achieved 
A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors  ; 
Setting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
And,  through  the  world,  subduing,  chaining  down 
The  free  immortal  spirit  ?     Were  they  not 
Mighty  magicians  ?     Theirs  a  wondrous  spell. 
Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 
Close  interwoven ;  where  together  met 
Blessings  and  curses,  threats  and  promises ; 
And  with  the  terrors  of  Futurity 
Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates, 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric 
And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible  !^^ 
What  in  his  day  the  Syracusan  sought, 


I  T  A  L  Y. 


117 


Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on, 

They  had  ;  and,  having  it,  like  gods,  not  men, 

Moved  this  world  at  their  pleasure.   Ere  they  came, 

Their  shadows,  stretching  far  and  wide,  were  known, 

And  Two,  that  look'd  beyond  the  visible  sphere, 

Gave  notice  of  their  coming — he  who  saw 

The  Apocalypse  ;  and  he  of  elder  time. 

Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 

Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.     Distant  as  they  were, 

Well  might  those  holy  men  be  filled  with  fear ! 

yiiT. 

CAIUS    CESTIUS. 

When  I  am  inclined  to  be  serious,  I  love  to  wander 
up  and  down  before  the  tomb  of  Caius  Cestius.  The 
Protestant  burial-ground  is  there  ;  and  most  of  the 
little  monuments  are  erected  to  the  young ;  young  men 
of  promise,  cut  off  when  on  their  travels,  fall  of  en- 
thusiasm, full  of  enjoyment ;  brides,  in  the  bloom  of 
their  beauty,  on  their  first  journey  ;  or  children  borne 
from  home  in  search  of  health.  This  stone  was  placed 
by  his  fellow-travellers,  young  as  himself,  who  will  re- 
turn to  the  house  of  his  parents  without  him  ;  that 
by  a  husband  or  father,  now  in  his  native  country. 
His  heart  is  buried  in  that  grave. 

It  is  a  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  covered  in  the 
winter  with  violets ;  and  the  Pyramid,  that  over- 
shadows it,  gives  it  a  classical  and  singularly  solemn 
air.  You  feel  an  interest  there,  a  sympathy  you  were 
not  prepared  for.  You  are  yourself  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
and  they  are  for  the  most  part  your  countrymen.  They 


118 


ITALY. 


call  upon  you  in  your  mother-tongue — in  English — in 
words  unknown  to  a  native,  known  only  to  yourselves  : 
and  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  that  old  majestic  pile,  has 
this  also  in  common  with  them.  It  is  itself  a  stranger, 
anions:  stran2;ers.  It  has  stood  there  till  the  lano^uao-e 
spoken  round  about  it  has  changed  ;  and  the  shepherd, 
born  at  the  foot,  can  read  its  inscription  no  longer. 

IX. 

THE    NUN. 
'Tis  over ;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow — there,  alas,  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death  ; 
Hers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  walls. 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'T  is  over ;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day  ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head — 
No  rocket,  bursting  in  the  midnight-sky, 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there. 
Still  in  her  father's  house  ;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,  nought  through  the  gloom  dis- 
cerned. 
Nought  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary. 
And  the  grey  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 


ITALY.  119. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration, 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chaunt, 
Of  Psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical, 
Yerse  after  verse  sung  out,  how  holily  ! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her, 
And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross  ; 
Yet  it  was  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed, 
Came  like  a  dirge.     When  her  fair  head  was  shorn, 
And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid. 
That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying,  "Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things !  " 
When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 
Were,  one  by  one,  removed,  even  to  the  last. 
That  she  might  say,  flinging  them  from  her,  "  Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  !  "    When  all  was  chang'd 
And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 
Yeil'd  in  her  veil,  crown'd  with  her  silver  crown. 
Her  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 
Fail  in  that  hour !     Well  might  the  holy  man, 
He,  at  whose  feet  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 
('T  was  in  her  utmost  need  ;  nor  while  she  lives,^^ 
Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 
That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 
And  pity ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled ; 
And  they,  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dress'd  for  sacrifice, 
Are  mingling  in  the  world  ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  Teresa.     Yet,  among  them  all, 


120  ITALY. 

None  were  so  form'd  to  love,  and  to  be  loved, 

None  to  delight,  adorn  ;  and  on  thee  now 

A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropp'd 

Forever  !     In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 

Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 

To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud, 

Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother  ;  leaving  there 

A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 

A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul. 

Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till  Death 

Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah,  what  now  to  thee, 

What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  Youth ! 

As  nothing ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 

Calmly ;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse, 

That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return, 

The  monstrous  birth  of  one  eventful  dav, 

Troubling  thy  spirit — from  the  first  at  dawn, 

The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast. 

To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem. ^^ 

All  in  turn 

Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 

Hover,  uncall'd.     The  young  and  innocent  heart, 

How  is  it  beating  ?     Has  it  no  regrets  ? 

Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there  ? 

But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 

Peace  to  thy  slumbers  ! 

X. 

THE    FIEE-FLY. 

There  is  an  insect,  that,  when  evening  comes, 
Small  though  he  be  and  scarce  distinguishable, 


ITALY. 


121 


Like  Evening  clad  in  soberest  livery, 
Unsheathes  his  wings,  and  through  the  woods  and 

glades 
Scatters  a  marvellous  splendour.     On  he  wheels. 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy, 
Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstacy  ; 
Nor  unaccompanied  ;  thousands  that  fling 
A  radiance  all  their  own,  not  of  the  day. 
Thousands  as  bright  as  he,  from  dusk  till  dawn. 
Soaring,  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap 
Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon  ; 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance 
By  brook  or  fountain-side,  in  many  a  braid 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair,  well  may  she  cry, 
"  Gome  hither  ;  and  the  shepherds,  gathering  round, 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  Night, 
Spangling  her  head  with  stars." 

Oft  have  I  met 
This  shining  race,  when  in  the  Tusculan  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmer'd  ;  oft  among 
Those  trees  religious  once  and  always  green, 
That  yet  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  Rome 
Over  the  Alban  lake  ;  oft  met  and  hail'd. 
Where  the  precipitate  Anio  thunders  down, 
And  through  the  surging  mist  a  poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  ?) 
Reveals  itself. 

Yet  cannot  I  forget 
Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve, 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 


122 


4 1  T  A  L  Y. 


And  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still, 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightl}^  in  bush  or  brake 
His  loneh'  lamp  rekindling.*    Unlike  theirs. 
His,  if  less  dazzling,  through  the  darkness  knows 
No  intermission  ;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and  clear 
As  Yirtue's  own. 

XL 
FOREIGN    TEAVEL. 

It  was  in  a  splenetic  humour  that  I  sate  me  down 
to  my  scanty  fare  at  Terracina ;  and  how  long  I  should 
have  contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in  array  before 
me,  I  cannot  say,  if  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that  drew  the 
tears  into  my  eyes,  had  not  burst  from  the  green  and 
leafy  boughs  on  the  hearth-stone.  "  Why,''  I  exclaimed, 
starting  up  from  the  table,  "why  did  I  leave  my  own 
chimnej^-corner  ? — But  am  I  not  on  the  road  to  Brun- 
dusium  ?  And  are  not  these  the  very  calamities  that 
befell  Horace  and  Virgil,  and  Maecenas,  and  Plotius. 
and  Yarius  ?  Horace  laughed  at  them  —  then  why 
should  not  I  ?  Horace  resolved  to  turn  them  to  ac- 
count ;  and  Yirgil — cannot  we  hear  him  observing,  that 
to  remember  them  will,  by  and  by,  be  a  pleasure?" 
My  soliloquy  reconciled  me  at  once  to  my  fate  ;  and 
when,  for  the  twentieth  time,  I  had  looked  through  the 
window  on  a  sea  sparkling  with  innumerable  brilliants, 
a  sea  on   which  the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey  and  the 

*The  glow-wonn. 


I  T  A  L  T, 


123 


Eneid  had  sailed,  I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid  banquet. 
Mv  thrushes  had  the  flavour  of  ortolans  ;  and  I  ate 
with  an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before. 

"Who,"'  I  cried,  as  I  poured  out  my  last  glass  of 
Falernian,'^'  (for  Falernian  it  was  said  to  be,  and  in  my 
eyes  it  ran  bright  and  clear  as  a  topaz-stone) — "  who 
would  remain  at  home,  could  he  do  otherwise  ?  Who 
would  submit  to  tread  that  dull,  but  daily  round  ;  his 
hours  forgotten  as  soon  as  spent?"  and,  opening  my 
journal-book,  and  dipping  my  pen  into  my  ink-horn,  I 
determined,  as  far  as  I  could,  to  justify  myself  and  my 
countrymen  in  wanderino;  oyer  the  face  of  the  earth. 
"  It  may  serye  me,"  said  I,  "  as  a  remedy  in  some  future 

fit  of  the  spleen." 


Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers  ;f  and  no  wonder, 
when  the  elements,  air,  water,  fire,  attend  at  our  bid- 
ding, to  transport  us  from  shore  to  shore  ;  when  the 
ship  rushes  into  the  deep,  her  track  the  foam  as  of 
some  mighty  torrent ;  and,  in  three  hours  or  less,  we 
stand  gazing  and  gazed  at  among  a  foreign  people. 
None  want  an  excuse.  If  rich,  they  go  to  enjoy  ;  if 
poor,  to  retrench ;  if  sick,  to  recover  ;  if  studious,  to 
learn  ;  if  learned,  to  relax  from  their  studies.  But 
whatever  they  may  say,  whateyer  they  may  believe, 

*  We  arc  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania  Felix.  On  the  colour 
and  flavour  of  Falernian,  consult  Galen  and  Dioscorides. 

f  As  indeed  it  always  was,  contribiitiug  those  of  every  degree,  from  a  milors 
with  his  suite  to  him  whose  only  attendant  is  his  sliadow.  Coryaie  in  1608 
performed  his  journej'  on  foot ;  and  returning,  hung  up  his  shoes  in  his  village 
cnurch  as  an  ex-voto.  Goldsmith,  a  century  and  a  half  afterwards,  followed 
in  nearly  the  same  path  ;  playing  a  tune  on  his  flute  to  procure  admittance,  when- 
ever he  approached  a  cottage  at  night-fall. 


124  ITALY. 

they  go  for  the  most  part  on  the  same  errand  ;  noi 
will  those  who  reflect,  think  that  errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over-anxions.  No  sooner  do 
they  enter  the  world,  than  they  lose  that  taste  for  na- 
tural and  simple  pleasures,  so  remarkable  in  early  life. 
Every  hour  do  they  ask  themselves  what  progress  they 
have  made  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  honour ;  and  on 
thev  go  as  their  fathers  went  before  them,  till,  weary 
and  sick  at  heart,  they  look  back  with  a  sigh  of  regret 
to  the  golden  time  of  their  childhood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particularly, 
restores  to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we  have  lost. 
When  the  anchor  is  heaved,  we  double  down  the  leaf ; 
and  for  a  while  at  least  all  effort  is  over.  The  old 
cares  are  left  clustering  round  the  old  objects ;  and  at 
every  step,  as  we  proceed,  the  slightest  circumstance 
amuses  and  interests.  All  is  new  and  strange.  We 
surrender  ourselves,  and  feel  once  again  as  children. 
Like  them,  we  enjoy  eagerly;  like  them,  when  we  fret, 
we  fret  only  for  the  moment ;  and  here  indeed  the  re- 
semblance is  very  remarkable,  for  if  a  journey  has  its 
pains  as  well  as  its  pleasures  (and  there  is  nothing 
unmixed  in  this  world),  the  pains  are  no  sooner  over 
than  they  are  forgotten,  while  the  pleasures  live  long 
in  the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  surely  without  another  advantage.  If 
life  be  short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days  and  its 
hours.  When  the  blood  slumbers  in  the  veins,  how 
often  do  we  wish  that  the  earth  would  turn  faster  on 
its  axis,  that  the  sun  would  rise  and  set  before  it  does, 
and,  to  escape  from  the  weight  of  time,  how  many 
follies,  how  many  crimes   are  committed  !     Men  rush 


ITALY. 


125 


on  danger,  and  even  on  death.  Intrigue,  play,  foreign 
and  domestic  broil,  such  are  their  resources  ;  and,  when 
these  thinirs  fail,  they  destroy  themselves. 

Now  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and  inno- 
cently. We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  adventures ; 
and  many  are  those  that  occur  to  us,  morning,  noon, 
and  night.  The  day  we  come  to  a  place  which  we 
have  long  heard  and  read  of,  and  in  Italy  we  do  so 
continually,  it  is  an  era  in  our  lives :  and  from  that 
moment  the  very  name  calls  up  a  picture.  How  de- 
lightfully too  does  the  knowledge  flow  in  upon  us,  and 
how  fast  !*  Would  he  who  sat  in  a  corner  of  his  li- 
brary, poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn  more  or  so 
much  in  tlie  time,  as  he  who,  with  his  eyes  and  his 
heart  open,  is  receiving  impressions,  all  day  long, 
from  the  things  themselves  ?t  How  accurately  do 
they  arrange  themselves  in  our  memory,  towns,  rivers, 
mountains  ;  and  in  what  living  colours  do  we  recall 
the  dresses,  manners  and  customs  of  the  people  !  Our 
sight  is  the  noblest  of  all  our  senses.  "  It  fills  the 
mind  with  most  ideas,  converses  with  its  objects  at 
the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  longest  in  action 
without  being  tired."  Our  sight  is  on  the  alert  when 
we  travel ;  and  its  exercise  is  then  so  delightful,  that 
we  forget  the  profit  in  the  pleasure. 

Like  a  river,  that   gathers,  that  refines  as  it  runs, 

*  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw  our  eyes  on  the 
markets  and  the  fields.  If  the  markets  are  well  supplied,  the  fields  well  cultivated, 
all  is  right.  If  otherwise,  we  may  say  and  say  truly,  these  people  are  barbarous 
or  oppressed. 

•{■Assuredly  not,  if  tlio  Inst  has  laid  a  proper  foundation.  Knowledge  makes 
knowledge  as  money  makes  money,  nor  ever  perhaps  so  fast  as  oa  a 
journey. 


126  IT  ALT. 

like  a  spring  that  takes  its  course  through  some  rich 
vein  of  mineral,  we  improve  and  imperceptibly — nor 
in  the  head  only,  but  in  the  heart.  Our  prejudices 
leave  us,  one  by  one.  Seas  and  mountains  are  no  longer 
our  boundaries.  We  learn  to  love,  and  esteem,  and 
admire  beyond  them.  Our  benevolence  extends  itself 
with  our  knowledge.  And  must  we  iiot  return  better 
citizens  than  we  went?  For  the  more  we  become 
acquainted  with  the  institutions  of  other  countries,  the 
more  highly  must  we  value  our  own. 


I  throw  down  my  pen  in  triumph.  "  The  ques- 
tion," said  I,  "is  set  to  rest  for  ever.     And  yet — " 

"  And  yet — "  I  must  still  say.  The  wisest  of  men 
seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  Athens ;  and  for  that 
worst  of  evils,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  to  which  we 
are  most  liable  when  most  at  our  ease,  is  there  not  after 
all  a  surer  and  yet  pleasanter  remedy,  a  remedy  for 
which  we  have  only  to  cross  the  threshold?  A  Pied- 
montese  nobleman,  into  whose  company  I  fell  at  Turin, 
had  not  long  before  experienced  its  efficacy;  and  his 
story,  which  he  told  me  without  reserve,  was  as 
follows : 

"I  was  weary  of  life,  and,  after  a  day,  such  as  few 
have  known  and  none  would  wish  to  remember,  was  hur- 
rying along  the  street  to  the  river,  when  I  felt  a  sudden 
check.  I  turned  and  beheld  a  little  boy,  who  had 
caught  the  skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his  anxiety  to  solicit 
my  notice.  His  look  and  manner  were  irresistible. 
Not  less  so  was  the  lesson  he  had  learnt. 


ITALY.  127 

"  'There  are  six  of  us ;  and  we  are  dying  for  want 
of  food.' — '  Why  should  I  not/  said  I  to  myself,  *  relieve 
this  wretched  family  ?  I  have  the  means  ;  and  it  will 
not  delay  me  many  minutes.  But  what  if  it  does?' 
The  scene  of  misery  he  conducted  me  to,  I  cannot 
describe.  I  threw  them  my  purse  ;  and  their  burst  of 
gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my  eyes — it  went  as 
a  cordial  to  my  heart.  'I  will  call  again  to-morrow,' 
I  cried.  '  Fool  that  I  was,  to  think  of  leaving  a  world 
where  such  pleasure  was  to  be  had,  and  so  cheaply!'" 

XII. 

THE    FOUNTAIN. 

It  was  a  well 
Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry  ; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honour'd  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  fiird,  overflow'd  it; 
Then  dash'd  away,  playing  tlie  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing  unseen,  unheard, 
Through  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
Of  aged  trees  ;   discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down  ;  admiring  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelus;  and  now  approach'd 


128 


1  T  A  L  Y. 


The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there, 
The  hour  Rebekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps  ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appear'd, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  call'd  up  the  day 
Ulysses  landed  there  ;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there. 
She  join'd  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink  ; 
And,  while  he  quench'd  his  thirst,  standing  on  tiptoe 
Look'd  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile. 
Nor  stirr'd  till  he  had  done,  fixed  as  a  statue. 

Then  hadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  Canova, 
Thou  hadst  endow'd  them  with  immortal  youth  ; 
And  thev  had  evermore  lived  undivided, 
Winning  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fairest. 

xni. 

BANDITTI. 

'T  IS  a  wild  life,  fearful  and  full  of  change, 
The  mountain-robber's.     On  the  watch  he  lies, 


'ITALY.  129 

Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger  ; 

And,  when  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 

Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest ; 
When  they  that  robb'd,  were  men  of  better  faith 
Than  kings  or  pontiffs,  when,  such  reverence 
The  Poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wikls, 
A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare, 
Crying  aloud,  "  Hence  to  the  distant  hills  ! 
Tasso  approaches  ;  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours ;  whose  sorcery 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest-glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armory, 
Our  mountain-caves  to  regal  palaces. 
Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  or  his  are  gone. 
Let  him  fear  nothing." 

When  along  the  shore, 
And  by  the  path  that,  wandering  on  its  way. 
Leads  through  the  fatal  grove  w^here  Tully  fell 
(Grrey  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tomb  is  there), 
He  came  and  they  withdrew :  they  were  a  race 
Careless  of  life  in  others  and  themselves. 
For  they  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp  ; 
But  not  ungenerous.     'T  is  no  longer  so. 
Now  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  ere  they  slay 
The  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 
Mocking  misfortune  ;  vain,  fantastical, 
Wearing  whatever  glitters  in  the  spoil ; 
And  most  devout,  though  when  they  kneel  and  pray 
With  ever}^  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder. 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array, 
As  by  a  spell  they  vanish — theirs  a  band, 


130  ^  ITALY.     • 

Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 
As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  cottage-door 
Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting, 
Now  in  the  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 
Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men 
Whose  names  on  innocent  lips  are  words  of  fear. 
Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit. 

Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence, 
Lurk,  night. and  day,  the  plague-spot  visible 
The  guilt  that  says,  Beware  ;  and  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  crouches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge-foot,  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scoop'd  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb. 
Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 
Slunk  as  he  enter'd.     There  he  broods  in  spleen 
Gnawing  his  beard  ;  his  rough  and  sinewy  frame 
O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life  : 
On  his  wan  cheek  a  sabre-cut,  well-earn"d 
In  foreign  warfare  ;  on  his  breast  the  brand 
Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 
He  clanked  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  more 
Dragg'd  ignominiously  ;  on  every  limb 
Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame, 
Stripes  of  the  lash'  and  honourable  scars. 
And  channels  here  and  there  worn  to  the  bone 
By  galling  fetters. 

He  comes  slowly  forth, 
Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savage  dell 
Anxiously  looks  ;  his  cruise,  an  ample  gourd 
(Duly  replenish'd  from  the  vintner's  cask), 
Slung  from  his  shoulder  ;  in  his  breadth  of  belt 


ITALY.  131 

Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  uncleaused, 

A  parcliment  scrawl'd  with.  uncoutLi  characters, 

And  a  small  vial,  Ms  last  remedy, 

His  cure,  when  all  things  fail.     'No  noise  is  heard, 

Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 

Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 

Leaps  in  the  gulph  beneath. — But  now  he  kneels 

And  (like  a  scout  when  listening  to  the  tramp 

Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 

Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores, 

Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifie-gun 

Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. 

Two  Monks, 
Portly,  grey-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds. 
Descend  where  yet  a  mouldering  cross  o'erhangs 
Tlie  grave  of  one  that  from  the  precipice 
Fell  in  an  evil  hour.     Their  bridle-bells 
King  merrily  ;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 
Re-echoes  ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  lost. 
Unconscious  of  the  good  in  store  below. 
The  holy  fathers  have  turn'd  off,  and  now 
Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere-long  to  wag  their  beards 
Before  my  lady-abbess,  and  discuss 
Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 
O'er  her  spiced  bowl — ^then  shrive  the  sisterhood, 
Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 
In  the  confessional. 

He  moves  his  lips 
As  with  a  curse — then  paces  up  and  down, 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on ; 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  the  past,  the  futare 


l?)2  ITALY. 


\ 


But  hark,  tlie  nimble  tread  of  numerous  feet ! 
— ^'T  is  but  a  dappled  herd,  come  down  to  slake 
Theii'  thirst  in  the  cool  wave.    He  turns  and  aims — 
Then  checks  himself,  unwilling  to  disturb 
The  sleeping  echoes. 

Once  ao^ain  he  earths  ; 
Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath, 
His  old  companions  in  that  hiding-place, 
The  bat,  the  toad,  the  blind- worm,  and  the  newt ; 
And  hark,  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident, 
As  of  a  man  in  haste.     Nearer  it  draws  ; 
And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 
Ha  !  't  is  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 
The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. 

Who  wants 
A  sequel,  may  read  on.     The  unvarnish'd  tale, 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 
'T  was  told  me  by  the  Marquis  of  Ravina, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  shelter'd  me 
In  that  brave  castle  of  his  ancestors 
O'er  Garigliano,  and  is  such  indeed 
As  every  day  brings  with  it — in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on,  and  lawless  men 
Walk  in  the  sun ;  but  it  should  not  be  lost. 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  country. 

XIV. 

AN  ADVENTURE. 

Theee  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate, 
Then  sprung  and  led  m^  captive.     Many  a  wild 
We  traversed ;  but  Ruscoui,  't  was  no  less, 


ITALY  138 

Marcli'd  by  my  side,  and,  when  I  thirsted,  climb'd 

The  cliffs  for  water ;  though,  whene'er  he  spoke, 

'T  was  briefly,  sullenly  ;  and  on  he  led, 

Distinguish'd  only  by  an  amulet, 

That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 

A  crystal  of  rare  virtue.     Night  fell  fast, 

When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable, 

He  turn'd  and  bade  them  halt.      'T  was  where  the 

earth 
Heaves  o'er  the  dead — where  erst  some  Alaric 
Fought  his  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  tlirew 
A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square, 
Stretch'd  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending. 
That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Cover'd  us  round ;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood. 
Weary  and  faint,  and  face  to  face  with  one, 
Whose  voice,  whose  look  dispenses  life  and  death. 
Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled,  and  the  Bandit  spoke. 
"  I  know  thee.     Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the  sport 
Slipping  thy  blood-hounds  with  a  hunter's  cry, 
And  thou  hast  found  at  last.     Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours. 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight-spectacle. 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better — how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.     If  thy  ransom  comes, 
Thou  livest.     If  not — but  answer  not,  I  pray, 


L34  ITALY. 

Lest  tbou  provoke  me.     I  may  strike  thee  dead  ; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.     Write,  and  thus." — 

I  wrote.    "  'T  is  well,"  he  cried.  "  A  peasant-boy 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence. 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.     This  cloak  of  mine 
Will  serve  thee ;  it  has  weather'd  many  a  storm." 
The  watch  was  set ;  and  twice  it  had  been  changed, 
When  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  hawk, 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.     I  look'd  up 
And  all  were  gone,  save  him  who  now  kept  guard, 
And  on  his  arms  lay  musing.     Young  he  seem'd, 
And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 
Some  secret  sorrow.    "  Thou  shrink'st  back,"  he  said 
"  Well  may'st  thou,  lying,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 
A  ruffian — one  for  ever  link'd  and  bound 
To  guilt  and  infamy.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deem'd  unworthy, 
When  he  had  watch'd  that  planet  to  its  setting. 
And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  meanest  thing 
That  Nature  has  given  birth  to.     Now  't  is  past. 

"  Wouldst  thou  know  more  ?     My  story  is  an 

old  one. 
I  loved,  was  scorn'd ;  I  trusted,  was  betray'd  ; 
An-d  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity. 
Met  with  the  fiend,  the  tempter — ^in  Rusconi. 
*  Why  thus  ? '  he  cried.     '  Thou  wouldst  be  free,  and 

darest  not. 
Come  and  assert  thy  birth -right  while  thou  canst, 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  duno^eon ; 


ITALY.  13". 

And  deatH  itself,  wliat  is  it  at  tlie  worst, 
What,  but  a  harlequin's  leap  ? '     Him  I  had  knowa 
Had  served  with,  siiller'd  with  ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  Capua,  when  the  moon  went  down,  I  swore 
Allegiance  on  his  dagger. 

Dost  thou  ask 
How  I  have  kept  my  oath  ?     Thou  shalt  be  told, 
Cost  what  it  may. — But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grrant  me  a  passport  to  some  distant  land. 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  wilt,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  aor . 
When  on  a  vineyard-hill  we  lay  conceal'd 
And  scattered  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont, 
I  heard  a  damsel  singing  to  lierself. 
And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone. 
In  her  first  beauty.     Up  a  path  she  came 
Leafy  and  intricate,  singing  her  song, 
A  song  of  love,  by  snatches ;  breaking  off 
If  but  a  flower,  an  insect  in  the  sun 
Pleased  for  an  instant ;  then  as  carelessly 
The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 
Rising  on  tiptoe  underneath  the  boughs 
To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 
Her  look,  her  mien  and  maiden- ornaments 
Show'd  gentle  birth  ;  and,  step  by  step,  she  came 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dreadful  snare. 
None  else  were  by,  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen, 
Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  gaiety 
AVent  to  my  heart ;  and,  starting  up,  I  cried, 
'  Fly — for  your  life ! '     Alas,  ske  shriek'd,  she  fell , 
And,  as  I  caught  her  falling,  all  rush'd  forth. 


136  ITALY. 

'  A  Wood-nyinpli ! '  said  Rusconi.     '  By  the  ligiit, 

Lovely  as  Hebe !    Lay  her  in  the  shade.' 

I  heard  him  not.     I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

'  What ! '  he  exclaim'd  with  a  malicious  smile, 

*  Wouldst  thou  rebel  ? '    I  did  as  he  required. 

'  Now  bear  her  hence  to  the  well-head  below 

A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 

Go  !    'T  is  an  office  all  will  envy  thee ; 

But  thou  hast  earn'd  it.' 

As  I  stagger'd  down, 
Unwilling  to  surrender  her  sweet  body ; 
Her  golden  hair  dishevell'd  on  a  neck 
Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep, 
Frantic  with  love,  with  hate,  '  Great  God ! '  I  cried 
(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray), 
'  Why  may  I  not,  while  yet — while  yet  I  can. 
Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death  ? ' 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said.     I  kiss'd  her  brow 
And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.    A  short  cry 
She  utter'd,  but  she  stiiT'd  not;  and  to  heaven 
Her  gentle  spirit  fled.     'T  was  where  the  path 
In  its  descent  turn'd  suddenly.     'No  eye 
Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following  fast 
But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 
Levell'd  their  deadly  aim.     Then  I  had  ceased 
To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 
(Would  I  were  there  !)  been  slumbering  in  my  gra  76 
Had  not  Rusconi  with  a  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaim'd, 
Grasping  my  arm,  '  'T  is  bravely,  nol^ly  done  ! 
Is  it  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  sword  ? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  camest  upon  ? 


Q'7 


ITALY.  la'J 

— But  't  is  his  first  offence,  and  let  it  pass. 
Like  the  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood, 
And  may  do  much  hereafter.     He  can  strike 
Home  to  tlie  hilt.'    Then  in  an  undertone, 
Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave, 
When  in  the  eyes  of  all  I  read  distrust  ? 
For  once,'  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue,  '  I  will  save  thee,  Albert 

..  Vgain,  I  cannot.'  " 

Ere  his  tale  was  told, 

As  on  the  heath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came ; 

And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 

Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 

— But  thfc  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in  need 

Of  rest.     The  young  Antonio  with  his  torch. 

Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

XV. 

NAPLES. 

This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.* 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven.     Not  a  grove. 
Citron,  or  pine,  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine, 
But  breathes  enchantment.     Not  a  cliff  but  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight. 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 
Some  ruin'd  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by. 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide, 

*  Un  pezzo  di  cielo  caduto  in  terra. — Sannazaro. 


13S  ITALY. 

From  daybreak,  when  tlie  mountaiu  pales  his  fire 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 
Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  Ararat, 
When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood, 
Was  with  his  household  sacrificing  there — 
From  daybreak  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow, 
And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening  hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable  and  truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry. 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came. 
And  laugh'd  and  sung,  arraying  Truth  in  flowera, 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came ; 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colours  not  their  own : 
And  at  her  bidding,  lo  !   a  dark  descent 
To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields. 
Those  fields  with  ether  j)ure  and  j)urple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  described,* 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  record 
What  they  reveal'd,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee. 
Beloved  Parthenope. 

Yet  here,  methinks, 
Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 
Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstacy, 

*  Viri^il. 


ITALY.  139 

And  soberest  meditation. 

Here  the  vines 
Wed,  each  lier  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
Hang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  chequering 
The  sunshine  ;  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall 
And  the  mild  moon  her  fairy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute,  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly  ;  and  the  dance  *  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love, 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquish'd,  and  the  maid, 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace, 
Nature's  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  Monarch  underneath, 
He  in  his  palace  of  lire,  diffuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendour.     Here,  unseen,  nnheard. 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild, 
He  works  his  wonders ;  save,  when  issuing  fortb 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And,  mingling  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn. 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low. 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  burning  lake, 
And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth, 
AVhat  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 
The  sleep  of  ages — till  a  plow,  a  spade 
Dis(?lose  the  secret,  and  the  eye  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons, 

*  The  Tarantella. 


t40  ITALY. 

EaeL  in  his  place,  eacli  in  his  gay  attire, 
And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round, 
And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along. 
We  may  contemplate,  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  Cumsean  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt ;  and  here  thy  gi'oves, 
Delicious  Baise.     Here  (what  would  they  not  ?) 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  in  the  sea ;  and  now  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmering, 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
The  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change, ' 
Save  when  the  sea-mew  clamours,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

What  the  mountainous  Isle,* 
Seen  in  the  South  ?     'T  is  where  a  Monster  dwelt,  j 
Who  hurl'd  his  victims  from  the  topmost  clifl'; 
Then  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow, 
So  subtle  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  fear'd  he  lived,  cursing  and  curs'd ; 
And  still  the  duno-eons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 
Darkness,  distemper. — Strange,  that  one  so  vile 
Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the  woild  ! 
Should,  where  withdrawn  in  his  decrepitude. 
Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 
"  Go  from  the  earth ! "  and  from  the  eai^h  they  went 
Yet  such  things  were — and  will  be,  when  mankind 

*  Caorefe.  t  Tiberius. 


ITALY.  141 

Lijsing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy ; 
And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty 
Trodden  down  and  tramj^led. 

Let  us  turn  the  pi'ow, 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,* 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place,f 
Immovable,  nor  asking.  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone,  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn !     At  the  fount. 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and  look'd, 
('T  was  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa), 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  Ions;,  lono;'  niffht 
That  foUow'd,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell. 
When  they  that  sought  Pompeii,  sought  in  vain ; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray. 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  for  centuries, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urns, 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.     Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  reveal'd 
The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre, 
And  lighting  up  this  City  of  the  Dead. 

Here  lived  a  miller;  silent  and  at  rest 

*  The  Elder  Pliny.  f  Pompeii. 


142  ITALY. 

His  mill-stones  now.     In  old  companionsliip 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  tlie  day  he  went, 
Each  ready  for  its  office — but  he  comes  not. 
And  here,  hard  by  (where  one  in  idleness 
Has  stopp'd  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man ; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  ere  long  to  be),  a  sculptor  wrought, 
I^or  meanly ;  blocks,  half  chisell'd  into  life, 
Waitino^  his  call.     Here  Ions:,  as  vet  attests  . 
The.  trodden-floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
From  many  an  ample  jar,  no  more  replenish'd ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erfl  owing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate,  and  quaff 'd,  and   look'd  on  them  that 

passVl, 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  Rome. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold  stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy,  so  sacred  once. 
Hail !     At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And  lo,  a  fairy  palace  !  everywhere. 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance. 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque. 
And  columns  clustering  in  patrician  splendour. 
But  hark,  a  footstep !     May  we  not  intrude  ? 
And  noAv,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  cfentle  voices  mino^linsr  as  in  converse ! 
— And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly. 
And  now-^along  the  corridor  it  comes — 
I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths ! 
— Ah,  no,  't  is  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense. 


ITALY.  US 

IJlo  and  vain!     We  are  but  wliere  we  were: 
Still  wandering  in  a  City  of  tlie  Dead  ! 

XVI. 
THE  BAG  OF  GOLD. 

I  dijSte  very  often  witli  the  good  old  Cardinal  *^^^ 
and,  I  should  add,  with  his  cats ;  for  they  always  sit 
at  his  table,  and  are  much  the  gravest  of  the  company. 
His  beaming  countenance  makes  us  forget  his  age;  nor 
did  I  ever  see  it  clouded  till  yesterday,  when,  as  we 
were  contemplating  the  sunset  from  his  terrace,  he  hap- 
pened, in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  to  allude  to  an 
affecting  circumstance  in  his  early  life. 

He  had  just  left  the  University  of  Palermo  and  was 
entering  the  army,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  a 
young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  merit,  a  Sicilian  of  a 
family  as  illustrious  as  his  own.  Living  near  each 
other,  they  were  often  together ;  and,  at  an  age  lil^e 
theirs,  friendship  soon  turns  to  love.  But  his  father, 
for  what  reason  I  forget,  refused  his  consent  to  their 
union ;  till,  alarmed  at  the  declining  health  of  his  son, 
he  promised  to  oppose  it  no  longer,  if,  after  a  separa- 
tion of  three  years,  they  continued  as  much  in  love  as 
ever. 

l-velying  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on  a 
long  journey,  but  in  my  absence  the  usual  arts  were 
resorted  to.  Our  letters  were  intercepted;  and  false 
rumours  were  spread — first  of  my  indifference,  then  of 
my  inconstancy,  then  of  my  marriage  with  a  rich 
heiress  of  Sienna ;  and,  when  at  length  I  returned  to 
make  her  my  own,  I  found  her  m  a  convent  of  Ursuline 


144  ITALY. 

Nuns,  She  had  taken  the  veil ;  and  I,  said  he  wllL  a 
sisfh — what  else  remained  for  me  ? — I  went  into  the 
church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion, very  many  have  been  happy  though  we  were  not ; 
and,  if  I  am  not  abusing  an  old  man's  privilege,  let  me 
tell  you  a  story  with  a  better  catastrophe.  It  was  told 
to  me  when  a  boy ;  and  you  may  not  be  unwilling  to 
hear  it,  for  it  bears  some  resemblance  to  that  of  the 
Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  commanded 
one  of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable;  the  moun- 
'  tains,  the  sea,  and  the  islands  illuminated  by  the  last 
beams  of  day ;  and,  sitting  down  there,  he  proceeded 
A^ith  his  usual  vivacity ;  for  the  sadness  which  had  come 
across  him  was  gone. 

There  lived  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near  Bologna, 
a  widow-lady  of  the  Lambertiui  family,  called  Madonna 
Lucrezia,  who  in  a  revolution  of  the  state  had  known 
the  bitterness  of  poverty,  and  had  even  begged  her 
bread;  kneeling  day  after  day  like  a  statue  at  the 
gate  of  the  cathedral  ;  her  rosary  in  her  left  hand,  and 
ler  right  held  out  for  charity  ;  her  long  black  veil  con- 
cealing a  face  that  had  once  adorned  a  court,  and  had 
received  tlie  homage  of  as  many  sonnets  as  Petrarch 
has  written  on  Laura. 

But  fortune  had  at  last  relented ;  a  legacy  from  a 
distant  relation  had  come  to  her  relief ;  and  she  was 
now  the  mistress  of  a  small  inn  at  the  foot  of  the 
Apeimines;  where  she  entertained  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  where  those  only  stopped  who  were  con- 
tented with  a  little.     The  house  was  still  standing, 


ITALY.  145 

when  in  my  youtli  I  passed  that  way ;  tlioiigli  tlie  sign 
of  the  White  Cross,  the  Cross  of  the  Hospitallers,  was 
QO  longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door ;  a  sign  which  she 
had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the  tradition  there,  in 
honour  of  a  maternal  uncle,  a  grand-master  of  that 
Order,  whose  achievements  in  Palestine  she  would 
sometimes  relate.  A  mountain-stream  ran  through  the 
garden  ;  and  at  no  great  distance,  where  the  road  turn- 
ed on  its  way  to  Bologna,  stood  a  little  chapel,  in  which 
a'  lamp  was  always  burning  before  a  picture  of  the 
Virgin,  a  picture  of  great  antiquity,  the  work  of  some 
Greek  artist. 

Here  she  was  dwelling,  respected  by  all  who  knew 
her ;  when  an  event  took  place,  which  threw  her  into 
the  deepest  affliction.  It  was  at  noon-day  in  Septem- 
ber that  three  foot-travellers  arrived,  and,  seating 
themselves  on  a  bench  under  her  vine-trellis,  were  sup- 
plied with  a  flagon  of  Aleatico  by  a  lovely  girl,  her 
only  child,  the  image  of  her  former  self.  The  eldest 
spoke  like  a  Venetian,  and  his  beard  was  short  and 
pointed  after  the  fashion  of  Venice.  In  his  demeanour 
he  affected  great  courtesy,  but  his  look  inspired  little 
confidence ;  for  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  contin- 
ually, it  was  with  his  lips  only,  not  with  his  eyes  ;  and 
they  were  always  turned  from  yours.  His  companions 
were  bluff  and  frank  in  their  manner,  and  on  theii* 
tongues  had  many  a  soldier's  oath.  In  their  hats  they 
wore  a  medal,  such  as  in  that  age  was  often  distributed 
in  war  ;  and  they  were  evidently  subalterns  in  one  of 
those  Free  Bands  which  were  always  ready  to  serve  in 
any  quarrel,  if  a  service  it  could  be  called,  where  a 
battle  was  little  more  than  a  mockery ;  and  the  slain. 


146  JTALY. 

as  on  an  opera-stage,  v/ere  up  and  fighting  to-morrow 
Overcome  witli  the  heat,  they  threw  aside  their  cloaks  ; 
and,  with  their  gloves  tucked  under  their  belts,  con- 
tinued for  some  time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go ;  and  the  Venetians  thus 
addressed  their  Hostess.  "Excellent  Lady,  may  we 
leave  under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two,  this  bag  of 
gold  ?  "  "  You  may, "  she  replied  gaily.  "  But  re- 
member, we  fasten  only  with  a  latch.  Bars  and  bolts, 
we  have  none  in  our  village ;  and,  if  we  had,  where 
would  be  your  security  ? " 

"  In  your  word.  Lady. " 

"  But  what  if  I  died  to-night  ?  Where  would  it 
be  then  ? "  said  she,  laughing.  ■■'  The  money  would  go 
to  the  church  ;  for  none  could  claim  it." 

*'  Perha23s  you  will  favour  us  with  an  acknowleclg 
ment." 

"  If  you  will  write  it." 

An  acknowledgment  was  written  accordingly,  and 
she  signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo,  the  village  phy- 
sician, who  had  just  called  by  chance  to  learn  the  news 
of  the  day  ;  the  gold  to  be  delivered  when  applied  for, 
but  to  be  delivered  (these  were  the  words)  not  to  one 
— nor  to  two — but  to  the  three ;  words  wisely  intro- 
duced by  those  to  whom  it  belonged,  knowing  what 
they  knew  of  each  other.  The  gold  they  had  just  re- 
leased from  a  miser's  chest  in  Perugia ;  and  they  were 
now  on  a  scent  that  promised  more. 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  departed, 
than  the  Venetian  returned,  saying,  "  Give  me  leave  to 
set  niy  seal  on  the  bag,  as  the  others  have  done ; "  and 
Bhe  placed  it  on  a  table  before  him.      But  in  that  mo- 


ITALY.  147 

ment  slie  was  called  away  to  receive  a  Cavalier,  who 
had  just  dismounted  from  his  horse ;  and,  when  she 
came  back,  it  was  gone.  The  temptation  had  proved 
irresistible ;  and  the  man  and  the  money  had  vanished 
together. 

"  Wretched  woman  that  I  am  ! "  she  cried,  as  in 
an  agony  of  grief  she  fell  on  her  daughter's  neck, 
"  What  will  become  of  us  ?  Are  we  ao^ain  to  be  cast 
out  into  the  wide  Avorld  ? — Unhappy  child,  would  that 
thou  hadst  never  been  born ! "  and  all  day  long  she 
lamented ;  but  her  tears  availed  her  little.  The  others 
were  not  slow  in  returning  to  claim  their  due ;  and 
there  were  no  tidino-s  of  the  thief:  he  had  fled  for 
away  with  his  plunder.  A  process  against  her  wa« 
instantly  begun  in  Bologna ;  and  what  defence  could 
she  make  ? — how  release  herself  from  the  obligation  of 
the  bond  ?  Wilfully  or  in  negligence  she  had  parted 
with  it  to  one,  when  she  should  have  kept  it  for  all ; 
and  inevitable  ruin  awaited  her ! 

"  Go,  Gianetta,"  said  she  to  her  daughter,  "  take 
this  veil  which  your  mother  has  worn  and  wept  under 
so  often,  and  implore  the  Counsellor  Calderino  to  plead 
for  us  on  the  day  of  trial.  He  is  generous,  and  will 
listen  to  the  unfortunate.  But,  if  he  will  not,  go  from 
door  to  door ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse  us.  Make  haste, 
my  child  ;  but  remember  the  chapel  as  you  pass  by  it. 
Nothing  prospers  without  a  prayer." 

Alas,  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  retained 
against  them ;  those  demanded  more  than  they  had  to 
give;  and  all  bade  them  despair.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  No  advocate ;  and  the  cause  to  come  on  to- 
moiTow ! 


148  ITALY. 

'Now  Giauetta  liad  a  lover ;  and  lie  was  a  student 
of  the  law,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  Lorenzo 
Martelli.  He  had  studied  long  and  diligentl)'  under 
that  learned  lawyer,  Giovanni  Andreas,  who,  though 
little  of  stature,  was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  con- 
temporaries was  called  the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi  of 
Doctors,  the  Light  of  the  World.  Under  him  he  had 
studied,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  Petrarch ;  and 
also  under  his  daughter,  Novella,  who  would  often 
lecture  to  the  scholars,  when  her  father  was  otherwise 
engaged,  placing  herself  behind  a  small  curtain,  lest 
her  l>eauty  should  divert  their  thoughts  ;  a  precaution 
in  this  instance  at  least  unnecessary,  Lorenzo  having 
lost  his  heart  to  another.^' 

To  him  she  flies  in  her  necessity;  but  of  what 
assistance  can  he  be  ?  He  has  just  taken  his  place  at 
the  bar,  but  he  has  never  spoken  ;  and  how  stand  up 
alone,  unpractised  and  unprepared  as  he  is,  against  an 
array  that  would  alarm  the  most  experienced  ? — "  Were 
I  as  mighty  as  I  am  weak,"  said  he,  "  my  fears  for  you 
would  make  me  as  nothing  But  I  will  be  there,  Gia- 
netta ;  and  may  the  Friend  of  the  Friendless  give  me 
strencrth  in  that  hour  !  Even  now  my  heart  fails  me  : 
but,  come  what  will,  while  I  have  a  loaf  to  share,  you 
and  your  mother  shall  never  want.  I  will  beg  through 
the  world  for  you." 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles.  The 
claim  is  stated,  and  the  evidence  given.     And  now  the 

*  Ce  pourroit  6tre,  says  Bayle,  la  maticre  d'un  joli  probleme  on  ponr- 
roit  examiner  si  cette  fille  avan^uit,  ou  si  elle  retanloit  le  profit  de  ses 
audi  tears,  en  Iciir  caehant  son  beau  visage.  II  y  auroit  cent  choses  a  diio 
►)oui-  et  contre  lii-dessus. 


ITALY.  149 

defence  is  called  for — ^but  none  is  made  ;  not  a  syllable 
is  uttei-ed ;  and,  after  a  pause  and  a  consultation  ol 
some  minutes,  the  Judges  are  proceeding  to  give  judg- 
ment, silence  having  been  proclaimed  in  the  Court^ 
Allien  Lorenzo  rises  and  thus  addresses  them. 

"  Reverend  Signors.  Young  as  I  am,'  may  I  ven- 
ture to  speak  before  you  ?  I  would  speak  in  behalf  of 
one  who  has  none  else  to  helj)  her ;  and  I  will  not 
keep  you  long. 

"  Much  has  been  said  ;  much  on  the  sacred  nature 
of  the  obligation — and  we  ackno',f ledge  it  in  its  full 
force.  Let  it  be  fulfilled,  and  to  the  last  letter.  It  is 
what  we  solicit,  what  we  require.  But  to  whom  is  the 
bag  of  gold  to  be  delivered  ?  What  says  the  bond  ? 
Not  to  one — not  to  two — but  to  the  three.  Let  the 
three  stand  forth  and  claim  it." 

From  that  day,  (for  who  can  doubt  the  issue?) 
none  were  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  subtle,  thf 
eloquent  Lorenzo.  Wealth  followed  Fame  ;  nor  need 
I  say  how  soon  he  sat  at  his  marriage-feast,  or  who  sat 
beside  him. 

XVIL 

A  CHARACTEK. 

Ojste  of  two  things  Montrioli  may  have 
My  envy  or  compassion.     Both  he  cannot. 
Yet  on  he  goes,'  numbering  as  miseries, 
What  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 
What  most  indeed  he  prides  himself  upon, 
And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 
"At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour  * 


150  ITALY. 

At  noon  tlie  kina^.     Then  comes  the  council-board ; 

And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.     When,  ah !  when, 

The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for  ? 

Not  when  at  home  ;  at  home  a  miscreant-crew, 

That  now  no'  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 

And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore, 

The  steward,  his  stoiies  longer  than  his  rent-roll, 

Who  enters,  quill  in  ear,  and,  one  by  one. 

As  though  I  lived  to  wiite  and  wrote  to  live, 

Unrolls  his  leases  for  my  signature." 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  who  would  wear  them,  and  become  the  slave 
Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  fast, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemploy'd, 
But  to  the  wise  how  j)recious  ! — every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 
To  read  them  ?     All,  wherever  in  the  scale, 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptre. 
Much  to  be  grateful  for ;  but  most  has  he, 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone 
Where  Knowledge  lights  his  lamp,  there  most  secure, 
And  Wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament, 
That  Seraph  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,  distinction,  powei-, 
Are  baubles  uothiug  worth,  that 'only  serve 


ITALY.  15] 

To  rouse  us  up,  as  cliildren  in  tlie  schools 

Are  roused  up  to  exertion.     The  reward 

Is  in  the  race  we  run,  not  in  the  prize ; 

And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it, 

Having,  by  favour  or  inheritance, 

Tliese  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands, 

And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well-tried, 

All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 

For  manhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age, 

Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride, 

That  glows  in  him  who  on  himself  relies. 

Entering  the  lists  of  life. 

XVIII. 

SORRENTO. 

He  who  sets  sail  from  Naples,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  Posilipo,  may  soon. 
Crossing  from  side  to  side  that  beautiful  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliff,  where  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore^ 
One  laugh'd  and  play'd,  unconscious  of  his  fate  ;  * 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life. 
To  be  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not, 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift. 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war. 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and  from  age  to  age. 
Sweeten  the  labour,  when  the  oar  was  plied 
Or  on  the  Adiian  or  the  Tuscan  sea. 

*  Tasso. 


152  ITALY. 

There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  again, 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored, 
Where  to  Salvator  (when,  as  some  relate. 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life, 
Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved. 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 
Nature  reveal'd  herself.     Unveil'd  she  stood, 
In  aE  her  wildness,  all  her  majesty, 
As  in  that  elder  time,  ere  Man  was  made. 

There  would  I  lins^er — then  a^o  forth  aoj-ain : 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  cape, 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 
The  fishing-town,  Amalfi.''^     Haply  there 
A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand. 
May  tell  him  what  it  is ;  but  what  it  was, 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon. 

The  time  has  been. 
When  on  the  quays  along  the  Syrian  coast, 
'T  was  ask'd  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  daw^n, 
"  What  ships  are  from  Amalfi  ? "  when  her  coins, 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime; 
From  Alexandria  southward  to  Sennaar, 
And  eastward,  through  Damascus  and  Cabul 
And  Samarcand,  to  thy  great  wall,  Cathay. 

Then  were  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  sway'd; 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.     In  her  port 
Prows,  strange,  uncouth,  from  Nile  and  Niger  met, 
People  of  vai'ious  feature,  various  speech  ; 
And  in  their  countries  many  a  house  of  prayer, 


ITALY.  15?, 

And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was, 
And  many  a  well,  like  Jacob's  in  the  wild, 
Rose  at  her  bidding.     Then  in  Palestine, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur  stood 
An  Hospital,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  and,  when  't  was  ask'  1^ 
"  Who  are  the  noble  founders  ? "  every  tongue 
At  once  replied,  "  The  merchants  of  Amalfi." 
That  Hospital,  when  Godfrey  scaled  the  walls. 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquish'd  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible, 
So  long  renown'd  as  champions  of  the  Cross, 
In  Rhodes,  in  Malta. 

For  three  hundred  years, 
There,  unapproach'd  but  from  the  deep,  they  dwelt ; 
Assail'd  for  ever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.     From  the  deep 
They  gather'd  in  their  harvests ;  bringing  home, 
In  the  same  ship,  relicts  of  ancient  Greece,'^^ 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fethers  lay, 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  Sicily, 
And  Indian  spices.     When  at  length  they  fell 
Losing  their  liberty,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  compared  with  which  the  wealth 
Of  Eastern  Kinoes — what  is  it  in  the  scale  ? — 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot, 
And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured, 
Struggling  with  fortune.     When  Sicardi  stood, 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried,  "  Come  fortl;, 
And  serve  me  in  Salerno ! "  forth  they  came, 


;r,4  ITALY. 

Covering  tTie  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle ; 
The  women  wailing,  and  the  heavy  oar 
Falling  unheard.     Not  thus  did  they  return, 
The  tyrant  slain ;  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  their  streets. 

There  now  to  him  who  sails  . 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages, 
Scatter'd  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds, 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark-ljlue  sea, 
And  glittering  through  their  lemon-groves,  announce 
The  region  of  Amalfi.    Then,  half-fallen, 
A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 
Their  ancient  land-mark,  comes.     Long  may  it  last ; 
And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 
Serve  for  their  monument !  ^ 

XIX. 

P^STUM. 

They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not !  * 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak. 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Teinples  of  Gods !  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 

*  The  temples  of  Paastum  are  three  in  number;  and  have  survived, 
nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  tlie  city.  Tradition  is  silent 
jonceruing  them  ;  but  they  must  have  existed  now  between  two 'and  thrca 
thousaiul  years. 


ITALY.  15/: 

The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice ! 

Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for  Justice ; 

And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused; 

And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 

All  silent  now  ! — as  in  the  ages  past, 

Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round, 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
While,  by  some  speU  render'd  invisible, 
Or,  if  approach'd,  approach'd  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remaiu'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre. 
Waiting  the  appointed  time !     All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resumed  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced. 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 
But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern ; 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  veraure ' 

From  my  youth  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half  way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region  black  and  desolate, 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.* 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
'Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals ; 

*  Spartacus,     See  Plutarcli  in  the  life  of  Crassus. 


|r,b  ITALY. 

Sweet  as  wlien  Tull}^,  writing  down  Ms  tlioiig]it3, 
Those  tlionghts  So  precious  and  so  lately  lost, 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  Philosophy, 
Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul) 
Sail'd  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
For  Athens ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Psestan  gardens,  slack'd  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 
These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
'Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 
Keflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west, 
Well  might  He  dream  of  Glory  ! — Now,  coil'd  up 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them ;  the  she-wolt 
Suckles  her  young ;  and,  as  alone  I  stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering, 
How  solemn  is  the  stillness !     Nothing  stirs 
Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing  ; 
Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 
And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  motion, 
To  vanish  in  the  chiulvs  that  Time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling^  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 
Across  the  innumerable  columns  flung), 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told. 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place.* 

*  They  are  said  to  liave  been  discovered  by  accident  about  the  middle 
01  the  last  century. 


ITALY.  157 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appear'd, 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scatter'd  as  in  scorn  , 
— And  what  within  them  ?  what  but  in  the  midst 
These  Three  in  more  than  their  original  grandem 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 
And,  turnino:,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

'T  is  said  a  stranger  in  the  days  of  old 
(Some  say  a  Dorian,  some  a  Sybarite ; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds), 
'T  is  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plow. 
Traced  out  the  site ;  and  Posidonia  rose,®^ 
Severely  great,  Neptune,  the  tutelar  God ; 
A  Homer's  language  murmuring  in  her  streets, 
And  in  her  haven  many  a  mast  from  Tyre. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knock'd  and  enter'd  with  a  train  in  arms  • 
And  all  w^as  changed,  her  very  name  and  language 
The  Tyrian  merchant,  shipping  at  his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sail'd  as  before,  but  sailing,  cried  "  For  Psestum  !" 
And  now  a  Virgil,  now  an  Ovid  sung 
Psestum's  twice-blowing  roses  ;  while,  within. 
Parents  and  children  mourn'd — and,  every  year 
('T  was  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival). 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again, 
Talk'd  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by.* 
At  length  an  Arab  climb'd  the  battlements, 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 

*  AtlieufBUs,  xiv. 


I5A  ITALY. 

And  from  all  eyes  tlie  glorious  vision  fled  ! 

Leaving  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous, 

Where  whom  the  robber  sj^ares,  a  deadlier  foe'"* 

Strikes  at  unseen — and  at  a  time  when  joy 

Opens  the  heart,  when  summer-skies  are  blue, 

And  the  clear  air  is  soft  and  delicate ; 

For  then  the  demon  works — then  with  that  air 

The  thoughtless  wretch  drinlvs  in  a  subtle  poison 

Lulling  to  sleep ;  and,  when  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  These  still  standing  in  the  midst  ? 
The  earth  has  rock'd  beneath ;  the  Thunder-stone 
Passed   through   and  through,  and    left  its  traces 

there. 
Yet  still  they  stand  as  by  some  Unknown  Charter' ! 
Oh,  they  are  Nature's  own  !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  Mountains  and  the  eternal  Sea, 
They  want  no  written  history ;  theirs  a  voice 
For  ever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  Man ! 

XX. 

MONTE   CASSINO. 

"  What  hangs  behind  that  curtain  ? " — 
"  Wouldst  thou  learn  ? 
If  thou  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.     'T  is  by  some 
Believed  to  be  his  master-work,  who  look'd 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel-wall. 
As  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and  past, 
Drew  the  Last  Judgment.f — But  the  Wisest  err. 

'  The  Mal'aria.  t  Michael  Angelo. 


ITALY.  159 

He  who  in  secret  wroiiglit,  and  gave  it  life, 

For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change, 

Life,  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart 

(They  who  behold  it,  go  not  as  they  came, 

But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day), 

Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.      We  know  not  much  , 

But  what  we  know,  we  will  communicate. 

'T  is  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  House  ; 

And  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fail ! 

Once — on  a  Christmas-eve — ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent-gate, 
And  ask'd  admittance  ;  ever  and  anon. 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  fear'd  to  find, 
Looking  behind  him.     When  within  the  walls, 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolable, 
Still  did  he  look  behind  him  ;  oft  and  long, 
With  haggard  eye  and  curling,  quivering  lip, 
Catchino:  at  vacancv.     Between  the  fits. 
For  here,  't  is  said,  he  linger'd  while  he  lived. 
He  would  discourse,  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explaiu'd, 
Unfelt  before  ;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
All  was  forgotten.      Then,  howe'er  employed. 
He  would  break  oif,  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  that  would  not  be  gone , 
And  turn  and  gaze,  and  shrink  into  himself. 
As  though  the  Fiend  was  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowl'd  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was  ; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  Services  ; 


laO  ITALY. 

Tlien,  only  tlien,  untroubled,  uuassail'cl ; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour, 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  in  Florence ;  with  a  master's  hand, 
As  to  this  day  the  Sacristy  attests, 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  Apocalypse. 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  work  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be, 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.     Whence  he  drew, 
None  here  can  doubt :  for  they  that  come  to  catch 
The  faintest  glimpse — to  catch  it  and  be  gone, 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves. 
Acting  the  self-same  part.     But  why  't  was  drawn, 
Whether  in  penance,  to  atone  for  Guilt, 
Or  to  record  the  anguish  Guilt  inflicts, 
Or  haply  to  familiarize  his  mind 
With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 
For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  soul." 

XXI. 

THE  HARPER. 

It  was  a  Flarper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
llis  only  treasure ;  a  majestic  man. 
By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued ; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  day  by  day. 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betray'd, 
Blind  as  old  Homer.     At  a  fount  he  sate, 
Well-known  to  many  a  weary  traveller  ; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old, 


ITALY.  1(51 

But  grave,  considerate  beyond  liis  years, 
Sitting  beside  liim.     Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin-spring ; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was, 
The  sun's  decline  awaited. 

But  the  child 
Was  worn  with  travel.     Heavy  sleep  weigh'd  down 
His  eye-lids;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came, 
Embolden'd  by  his  love  and  by  his"  fear, 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road. 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.     Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse  ? — Not  I ;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  with  every  earthly  gift, 
I  cannot  envy.     He,  if  wealth  be  his. 
Knows  not  its  uses.     So  from  noon  till  night, 
Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle  ^^ 
That  yet  display'd,  in  old  emblazonry, 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear ;  ^ 
We  lumber'd  on  together;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length. 
When  questiou'd  the  adventures  of  his  life, 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone  ; 
His  shipwrecks  on  inhosj^itable  coasts. 
And  his  long  warfare. 

They  were  bound,  he  said, 
To  a  great  fair  at  Eeggio  ;  and  the  boy, 
Believing  all  the  world  were  to  be  there. 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue. 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.     His  short  trance. 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  hke  a  charmed  cup, 

Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawl'd, 

11 


1(32  ITALY. 

Slow  as  the  snail  (my  muleteer  dismounting, 
And  now  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe, 
And  now  Luigi)  he  poured  out  his  heart, 
Largely  repaying  me.     At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  setting  in  a  sea  of  gold ; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  l)e. 

Their  harp—it  had  a  voice  oracular, 
And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street. 
Spoke  when  consulted.     If  the  treble  chord 
Twang 'd  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill   and  dale  thei 

went. 
The  grandsire,  step  by  step  led  by  the  child  ; 
And  not  a  rain-drop  from  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.     Thus  it  spoke  to-day ; 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind, 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 

XXII. 

THE  FELUCA. 

Day  glimmer'd ;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  foUow'd  as  in  love  with  fear, 
Or  as  in  scorn,  yet  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  where  it  menaced  most), 
A  sea  of  vapour  roll'd.     Methought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world ; 
But  soon  the  surges  fled  and  we  descried, 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet, 
Thy  gulf.  La  Spezzia.     Ere  the  morning-gun, 
Ere  the  first  day-streak,  we  alighted  there , 


HALT.  168 

And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur !     Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.     Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir  ;  as  at  the  noontide  hour, 
None  unemploy'd.     Wliere  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea. 
The  maidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont, 
"Washing  their  garments.     Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 
Keel-upward,  and  the  fagot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  chaldron ;  while,  beyond  the  fort 
Whither  I  wander'd,  step  by  step  led  on, 
The  fishers  dragg'd  their  neft,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life, 
At  every  heave  striking  their  silver  fins 
'Gainst  the  dark  meshes. 

Soon  a  boatman's  shout 
Re-echoed ;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach. 
Waving,  recall'd  me.    We  embark'd  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  Genoa  reign'd, 
A  hundred  galleys  shelter'd-7-in  the  day, 
When  lofty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
Doria,  Pisani  fouo-ht ;  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.     On  we  went, 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea,^* 
On  from  the  risius:  to  the  settino;  sun. 
In  silence — underneath  a  mountain-ricl^e. 
Untamed,  untamable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple  ;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot. 
Some  village  and  its  church,  a  scanty  line. 
Athwart  the  wave  gleam'd  faintly.     Fear  of  ill 
Nai-row'd  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane, 


ICA  ITALY. 

And  that  yet  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 

Who,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey. 

Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast 

(Where  Tripoli  and  Tunis  and  Algiers 

Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 

Gather,  whene'er  the  Crescent  comes  display'd 

Over  the  Cross)  his  human  merchandise 

To  many  a  curious,  many  a  cruel  eye 

Exposes.     Ah,  how  oft  where  now  the  sun 

Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  cimeters 

Flash'd  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 

DraggVl  forth,  ere-long  to  number  them  for  sale, 

Ere-long  to  part  them  in  their  agony, 

Parent  and  child !     How  oft  where  now  we  rode 

Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son, 

Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  grey  in  chains, 

Labour'd,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 

Upon  the  land — the  land,  that  gave  him  birth  ; 

And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears. 

Fondly  imagined ;  w]ien  a  Christian  ship 

Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 

A  voice  in  anger  cried,  "  Use  all  your  strength  ! " 

But  when,  ah  when,  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting  ?     Strange,  that  men, 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas  !  to  die, 
Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this  world 
A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself, 
Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 
To   him    who    never   wrong'd    them!     Who    that 

breathes 
Would  not,  when  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 


ITALY.  165 

As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible  ? 
Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 
A  consciousness  how  soon  we  sliall  be  gone, 
Or,  if  we  linger — but  a  few  sliort  years — • 
How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave, 
Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love. 
And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve. 
Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
Rose  like  another  sun,  illumining 
"Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower. 
Scenes  of  Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often — scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odours.     All  was  still ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  pour'd  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heart-felt  delight. 
So  fast  it  flow'd,  her  tongue  so  voluble. 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 
Ere  half  was  told.     'T  was  where  in  the  north-west. 
Still  unassail'd  and  unassailable. 
Thy  pharos,  Genoa,  first  display'd  itself. 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star,  so  oft  the  only  one. 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault, 
Are  dark  and  silent.     'T  was  where  o'er  the  sea, 
For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length, 
Delicious  gardens  hung ;  green  galleries. 
And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight, 


166  ITALY. 

And  fairy-arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

Wildering,  enclianting ;  and,  above  them  all, 

A  Palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  East, 

In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest, 

Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold. 

And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sun, 

Rose,  when  Aladdin  rubb'd  the  wondrous  lamp ; 

Such,  if  not  fairer ;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 

A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 

The  windows  blazing.     But  we  now  approach'd 

A  City  far-renown'd ;  *  and  wonder  ceased. 

XXIII. 

GENOA 

This  house  was  Andrea  Doria's.     Here  he  li 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore. 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 
As  on  his  deck.     'T  is  less  in  length  and  breadt, 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war ; 
But  't  is  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better ;  and  't  is  now 
A  house  of  trade,*^^  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.    Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 
'T  is  still  the  noblest  dwelling — even  in  Genoa! 
And  hadst  thou,  Andrea,  lived  there  to  the  last, 
TtiOTi  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without, 

*  Genoa. 


ITALY.  167 

That  in  the  w  all,  which  monarchs  t'ould  not  give, 
Nor  thou  take  with  thee,  that  which  says  aloud. 
It  was  thy  Country's  gift  to  her  Deliverer. 

'T  is  in  the  heart  of  Genoa  (he  who  conies, 
Must  come  on  foot)  and  in  a  place  of  stii- ; 
Men  on  their  daily  business,  early  and  late, 
Thronging  thy  very  threshold.     But  when  there, 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow-citizens, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hail'd  thee  as  their  sire ; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there, 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gavest  them  more  than  life, 
Giving  what,  lost,  makes  life  not  worth  the  keeping. 
There  thou  didst  do  indeed  an  act  di\dne ; 
JSTor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in, 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

Thou  art  now 
Again  among  them.     Thy  brave  mariners, 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side, 
Staining  the  mountain-billows,  bore  thee  back 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral-chamber. 

Thine  was  a  glorious  course;  but  couldst  thou 
there. 
Clad  in  thy  cere-cloth — in  that  silent  vault. 
Where  thou  art  gather'd  to  thy  ancestors — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all, 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  pass'd  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left, 
Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected,^^ 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 


168  ITALY. 

Tlie  ambitious  man,*  that  in  a  perilous  liour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 


A  FAKEWELL.f 

Akd  now  farewell  to  Italy — perhaps 

For  ever  !     Yet,  methinks,  I  could  not  go, 

I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 

"  Farewell  for  ever  !  " 

Many  a  courtesy. 

That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 

But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came. 

Have  I  ex]3erienced ;  not  a  cabin-door. 

Go  where  I  would,  but  open VI  with  a  smile ; 

From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent, 

Strange  perfumes  rose,  as  if  to  welcome  me, 

From  flowers  that  minister'd  like  unseen  spirits ; 

From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage-songs  broke  fort  h, 

A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  Southern  lakes, 

Dazzlingly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet ; 

They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere-long 

Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed — onward  to  roll 

From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty. 

Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 

The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude, 

No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 

Much  to  remember — from  the  Polesine, 

Where,  when  the  south-wind  blows,  and  clouds  oa 
clouds 

Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  ba"*'^ 

*  Fiesco.  t  Written  at  Susa,  May  1,  1822. 


ITALY.  169 

* 


Mindful  to  migrate  wlien  the  king  of  floods 
Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  keel, 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  and  fence, 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters — from  that  low. 
That  level  region,  where  no  Echo  dwells, 
Or.  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight. 
Hoarse,  inarticulate — on  to  where  the  path 
Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 
Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death  ; 
Where  the  wild-boar  retreats,  when  hunters  chafe. 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  buifalo-herd. 
Afflicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool, 
Nothing  discern'd  amid  the  water-leaves. 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head, 
Savage,  uncouth  ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-like, 
LTrorine  his  steed  alono-  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travell'd  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  tmn'd 
(Ah  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been?) 
When  in  the  South,  against  the  azure  sky, 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty, 
The  wondrous  work  of  some  heroic  race.f 

But  now  a  long  farewell !     Oft,  while  I  live, 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
In  my  own  chimney-nook,  as  Night  steals  on, 
With  half-shut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  methinks. 
While  the  wind  blusters  and  the  pelting  rain 
Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mind 

*  The  Po.  +  The  Temples  of  P^stmn, 


170  ITALY. 

The  scenes,  occurrences,  I  met  with  here, 
And  wander  in  Elysium ;  many  a  note 
Of  wildest  melody,  magician-like, 
Awakening,  such  as  the  Calabrian  horn, 
Along  the  mountain-side,  when  all  is  still, 
Pours  foi'th  at  folding-time  ;  and  many  a  chanty 
Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 
Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens.  La  Cava , 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear, 
Now  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  Heaves? ! 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTEATIONS 


Note  1,  Page  13. 

like  him  of  old. 

The  Abbot  of  Clairvaux,  "  To  admire  or  despise  St.  Bernard 
as  he  ought,"  says  Gibbon,  "  the  reader  like  myself,  should  have 
before  the  windows  of  his  library  that  incomparable  landscape." 

Note  2,  Page  15. 

Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanour  welcomed  me. 
Berri,  so  remarkable  for  his  sagacity,  was   dead.     His  skin  is 
etuflfed,  and  is  preserved  in  the  Museum  of  Berne. 

Note  3,  Page  19. 

Bread  to  the  hungry. 
They  distribute,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  from  thirty  to  thirty- 
five  thousand  rations  of  food ;  receiving  travellers  of  every  descrip 
tion. — Le  Pere  Biselx,  Prieur. 

Note  4,  Page  20. 

Dessaix,  who  turn'd  the  scale. 
"  Of  all  the  generals  I  ever  had  under  me,  Dessaix  possessed  the 
greatest  talents.     He  loved  glory  for  itself." 

Note  5,  Page  25. 

A  wondrous  monument. 


Almost  every  mountain  of  any  rank  or  condition  has  such  a 
bridge.  The  most  celebrated  in  this  country  is  on  the  Swiss  side  of 
St,  Gothard. 


172  ITALY. 

Note  6,  Page  31. 

quaffing  gramolata. 


A  sherbet  half  frozen. 

Note  7,  Page  32. 

Like  him  wLo,  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy. 
Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Sen.  1.  v.  ep.  3. 

Note  8,  Page  33. 

Before  the  great  Mastino. 

Mastino  de  la  Scala,  the  Lord  of  Verona.  Cortusia,  the  ambas- 
sador and  historian,  saw  him  so  surrounded. — L.  6. 

This  house  had  been  always  open  to  the  unfortunate.  In  the 
days  of  Can  Glrande,  all  were  welcome  ;  Poets,  Philosophers,  Artists, 
Warriors.  Each  had  his  apartment,  each  a  separate  table ;  and  at 
the  hour  of  dinner,  musicians  and  jesters  went  from  room  to  room. 
Dante,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  found  an  asylum  there. 

Note  9,  Page  35. 

In  this  neglected  mirror. 
As  this  is  the   only  instance,  with  which  I  am   acquainted,  of  a 
Ghost  in  Italy  since  Brutus  sat  in  his  tent,  I  give  it  as  I  received  it ; 
though  in  the  catastrophe  I  have  been  anticipated  by  a  distingui.'^hed 
writer  of  the  present  day. 

It  was  first  mentioned  to  me  by  a  friend,  as  we  were  crossing  tnc 
Apennines  together. 

Note  10,  Page  37. 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  Castle  wall. 
Murato  was  a  technical  word  for  this  punishment  in  Italy. 

Note  11,  Page  38. 

Issuing  forth. 

An  old  huntsman  of  the  family  met  her  in  the  haze  of  the  morn 
ing,  and  never  went  out  again. 

She  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna  Bianca. 

Note.  12,  Page  39. 

the  tower  of  Ezzelin — 


Now  an  Observatory.     On  the  wall  there  is  a  long  inscription 
"  Piis  carcerem  adspergite  lacrymis,"  etc. 

Ezzelino  is  seen  by  Dante  in  the  river  of  blood< — Inferno,  sii 


ITALY.  173 

Note  13,  Page  39. 

The  lagging  mules 


The  passage  boats  are  drawn  up  and  down  the  Brent. 

Note  14,  Page  39. 

That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino, 

A  pleasant  instance  of  his  wit  and  agility  was  exhibited  some 
years  ago  on  the  stage  at  Venice. 

"  The  stutterer  was  in  an  agony  ;  the  word  was  inexorable.  It 
was  to  no  purpose  that  Harlequin  suggested  another  and  another. 
At  length,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  he  pitched  his  head  full  in  the  dying 
man's  stomach,  and  the  word  bolted  out  of  his  mouth  to  the  most 
distant  part  of  the  house." — See  Moore's  View  of  Society  in  Italy. 

Note  15,  Page  41. 
Ere  yet  the  Califa  came 


A  caravan. 

Note  16,  Page  43. 

Playing  at  Mora. 
A   national   game    of   great   antiquity,  and   most  probably  the 
'  miciire  dieitis  "  of  the  Romans. 


b 


Note  17,  Page  44. 

twelve  Procurators. 


The  procuratorship  of  St.  Mark  was  the  second  dignity  in  the 
Republic. 

Note  18,  Page  46. 

The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains. 
They  were  placed  in  the  floor  as  memorials.     The  brass  was  en- 
graven with    the  words  addressed  by   the   Pope  to   the  Emperor, 
"  Super  aspidem,"  etc. 

Note  19,  Page  46. 

Of  the  proud  Pontiff — 
Alexander  III.     He  fled   in  disguise  to  Venice,  and  is  said  to 
have  passed  the  first  night  on  the  steps  of  San  Salvatore.     The  <!n- 
trance  is  from  the  Merceria,  near  the  foot  of  the  Rialto  ;  and  it  is 
,.  thus  recorded,  under  his  escutcheon,  in  a  small  tablet  at  the  door 
A-lexandro  III.,  Pont.  Max.  pernoetanti. 


174  ITALY, 


Note  20,  Page  47. 

-some  from  merry  England. 


"  Kecenti  victoria  exultantes,"  says  Petrarch,  alluding,  no  doubt, 
to  the  favourable  issue  of  the  war  in  France.  This  festival  began 
on  the  4th  of  August,  1364, 

Note  21,  Page  47. 

And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  CarniTal. 
Among  those  the  most  followed,  there  was  always  a  mask  in  a 
magnificent  habit,  relating  marvellous  adventures,  and  calling  him- 
self Messer  Marco  Millioni.  Millioui  was  the  name  given  by  his 
fellow-citizens  in  his  lifetime  to  the  great  traveller,  Marco  Polo.  "  I 
have  seen  him  so  described,"  says  Ramusio,  "  in  the  records  of  the 
Republic ;  and  his  house  has,  from  that  time  to  this,  been  called  La 
Corte  del  Millioni,"  the  house  of  the  rich  man,  the  millionaire.  It 
is  on  the  canal  of  S.  Griovanni  Chrisostomo ;  and,  as  long  as  he  lived, 
was  much  resorted  to  by  the  curious  and  the  learned. 

Note  22,  Page  49. 

And  bore  aw^y  to  the  canal  Orfano. 
A  deep  channel  behind  the  island  of  S.  Griorgo  Maggiore. 

Note  23,  Page  51. 

All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere. 

A  Frenchman  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  robbed  at  Venice,  and 
had  complained  in  conversation  of  the  negligence  of  the  police,  was 
3n  his  way  back  to  the  Terra  Firm  a,  when  his  gondola  stopped  sud- 
denly in  the  mids*  of  the  waves.  He  inquired  the  reason ;  and  his 
gondoliers  pointed  to  a  boat  with  a  red  flag  that  had  just  made  them 
a  signal.  It  arrived ;  and  he  was  called  on  board.  "  You  are  the 
Prince  de  Craon  ?  Were  you  not  robbed  on  Friday  evening  ? — I 
was. — Of  what  ? — Of  five  hundred  ducats. — And  where  were  they  ? — 
In  a  green  purse. — Do  you  suspect  any  body  ? — I  do,  a  servant. — 
Would  you  know  him  again  ? — Certainly."  The  interrogator  with 
his  foot  turned  aside  an  old  cloak  that  lay  there ;  and  the  P-rince  be- 
held his  purse  in  the  hand  of  a  dead  man.  "  Take  it ;  and  remember 
that  none  set  their  feet  again  in  a  country  where  they  have  presumed 
io  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  government." 


ITALY.  17 

Note  24,  Page  63. 

and  he  sung, 


As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself. 

Goldoni,  describing  his  excursion  with  the  Passalacqua,  has  left 
us  a  lively  picture  of  this  class  of  men. 

We  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  that  great  lagoon  which  en- 
circles the  city  than  our  discreet  gondolier  drew  the  curtain  behind 
us,  and  let  us  float  at  the  will  of  the  waves. — At  length  night 
came  on,  and  we  could  not  tell  where  we  were.  "What  is  the 
hour  ?  "  said  I  to  the  gondolier.  "  I  cannot  guess,  sir  ;  but  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  it  is  the  lover's  hour."  "  Let  us  go  home,"  I  replied ; 
and  he  turned  the  prow  homeward,  singing,  as  he  rowed,  the  twenty- 
sixth  strophe  of  the  sixteenth  canto  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered. 

Note  25,  Page  54. 

The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door. 

Bianca  Capello.  It  had  been  shut  by  a  baker's  boy,  as  he  passed 
by,  at  day-break ;  and  in  her  despair  she  fled  with  her  lover  to 
Florence,  where  he  fell  by  assassination.  Her  beaxity,  and  her  love- 
adventure  as  here  related,  her  marriage  afterwards  with  the  Grand 
Duke,  and  that  fatal  banquet  at  which  they  were  both  poisoned  by 
the  Cardinal,  his  brother,  have  rendered  her  history  a  romance.  The 
Capello  Palace  is  on  the  Canals  di  Canonico ;  and  the  postern-door, 
la  porta  di  strada,  is  still  on  its  hinges.  It  opens  into  one  of  those 
narrow  alleys  so  numerous  at  Venice. 

Note  26,  Page  58. 

Laid  at  his  feet 

They  were  to  be  seen  in  the  treasury  of  St.  Mark  very  lately. 

Note  27,  Page  61. 

that  maid,  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest. 


She  was  a  Contarini ;  a  name  coeval  with  the  Republic,  and  il- 
lustrated by  eight  Doges.  On  the  occasion  of  their  marriage,  the 
Bucentaur  came  out  in  its  splendour ;  and  a  bridge  of  boats  was 
thrown  across  the  Canal  Grande  for  the  Bridegroom  and  his  retinue 
of  three  hundred  horse.  Sanuto  dwells  with  pleasure  on  the  costli- 
ness of  the  dresses  and  the  magnificence  of  the  processions  by  land 
and  water,  The  tournaments  in  the  Place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three 
days,  and  were  attended  by  thirty  thousand  people. 


176  ITALY. 

Note  28,  Page  62. 

I  have  transgressd,  offended  wilfully. 
It  was  a  high  crime  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any  foreign  prince 

Note  29,  Page  65. 

the  Invisible  Three. 


The  State-Inquisitors.  For  an  account  of  their  authority,  sec' 
page  59. 

Note  30,  Page  68. 

Neglect  to  visit  Arqua. 
This  village,  says  Boccaccio,  hitherto  almost  unknown  even  at 
Padua,  is  soon  to  become  famous  through  the  world ;  and  the  sailor 
on  the  Adriatic  will  j^rostrate  himself  when  he  discovers  the  Eu- 
ganean  hills.  "  Among  them,"  will  he  say,  "  sleeps  the  Poet  who  is 
our  glory.  Ah,  unhappy  Florence  !  You  neglected  him — you  de-. 
served  him  not." 

Note  31,  Page  69. 

Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house. 

"  I  have  built,  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a  small  house  decent 
and  proper ;  in  which  I  hope  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days,  thinking 
always  of  my  dead  or  absent  friends." 

When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country,  Petrarch  prepared  for 
flight.  "  Write  your  name  over  your  door,"  said  one  of  his  friends, 
"  and  you  will  be  safe."  "  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Pe- 
trarch, and  fled  with  his  books  to  Padua. 

His  books  he  left  to  the  Republic  of  Venice  ;  but  they  exist  no 
longer.  His  legacy  to  Francis  Carrara,  a  Madonna  painted  by 
Giotto,  is  still  preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Padua. 

Note  32,  Page  77. 

In  this  chapel  wrought. 

A  chapel  of  the  Holy  Virgin  in  tlie  church  of  the  Carmelitess, 
It  is  adorned  with  his  paintings,  and  all  the  great  artists  of  Florence 
studied  there  :  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Fra  Bartolomeo,  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  etc. 

He  had  no  stone,  no  inscription,  says  one  of  his  biographers,  for 
he  was  thought  little  of  in  his  lifetime. 


To  fire. 


ITALY.  l^j*i 

Note  33,  Page  78. 

— condeinn'd  his  mortal  part 


In  1302,  he  was  sentenced,  if  taken,  to  be  burned. 

Note  34,  Page  78. 

Nor  then  forget  the  Chamber  of  the  Dead. 
The  Chapel  de'  Deposit! ;  in  which  are  the  tombs  of  the  Medici, 
Dy  Michael  Angelo. 

Note  35,  Page  78. 

That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.     Mark  him  well. 
He  died  early ;  living  only  to  become  the  father  of  Catharine  de 
Medicis.     Had  an  evil  spirit  assumed  the  human  shape  to  propagate 
mischief,  he  could  not  have  done  better. 

The  statue  is  larger  than  the  life,  but  not  so  large  as  to  shock 
belief.  It  is  the  most  real  and  unreal  thing  that  ever  came  from  the 
chisel. 

Note  36,  Page  79. 

It  must  be  known^ — the  writing  on  the  wall. 
Exoriare  aliquis  nostris  ex  ossibus  ultor. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  language  more  affecting  than  his  last 
testament.     It   is    addressed   "  To   Grod    the    Deliverer,"   and    was 
found  steeped  in  his  blood. 

Note  37,  Page  80. 

That  Cosmo 

The  first  Grand  Duke. 

Note  38,  Page  80. 

the  disconsolate  Mother. 

Of  the  children  that  survived  her,  one  fell  by  a  brother,  one  by 
a  husband,  and  a  third  murdered  his  wife. 

But  that  family  was  soon  to  become  extinct.  It  is  some  consola- 
tion to  reflect  that  their  country  did  not  go  unrevenged  for  the  ca- 
lamities which  they  had  brought  upon  her.  How  many  of  them  died 
by  the  hands  of  each  other  ! 

Note  39,  Page  83 

Came  out  into  the  meadows. 

Once,  on  a  bright  November  morning,  I  set  out  and  traced  them, 

as  I  conceived,  step  by  step ;  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Church 
x2 


1'78  ITALY. 

of  Santa  Maria  Novella.     It  was  a  walk  delightful  in  itself,  and  in 
its  associations. 

Note  40,  Page  84. 

The  morning-banquet  bj  the  fouutaia-side. 

Three  hours  after  sunrise. 

Note  41,  Page  86. 

There,  unseen. 
Milton  went  to  Italy  in  1638.     "  There  it  was,"  says  he,  "  that  ) 
found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo,  grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the 
Inquisition."     "  Old  and   blind,"  he  might  have  said.     Galileo,  bj 
his  own   account,  became  blind,  in  December,  1637.     Milton,  as  w< 
learn  from   the  date  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter  to  him,  had  no 
left  England  on  the  18th  of  April  following. — See  Tiraboschi,  an 
Wotton's  Remains. 

Note  42,  Page  86. 

So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's — 

They  rise  within  thirteen  miles  of  each  other. 

Note  43,  Page  87. 

Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring. 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  first  Sforza  went  down,  when  he 
perished  in  the  Pescara. 

Note  44,  Page  90. 

At  the  bridge-foot. 

Giovanni  Buondelmonte  was  on  the  point  of  marrying  an  Amidei, 
when  a  widow  of  the  Donati  family  made  him  break  his  engagement 
in  the  manner  here  described. 

The  Amidei  washed  away  the  affront  with  his  blood,  attacking 

him,  says  Villani,  at  the  foot  of  the  Ponte  Vecehio ;  and  hence  the 

wars  of  the  Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines. 

0  Buondelmonte,  quanto  mal  fuggisti 

Le  nozze  sue,  per  gli  altrui  conforti ! — Dante. 

Note  45,  Page  90. 

It  had  been  well,  hadat  thou  slept  on,  Imelda. 
The  story  is  Bolognese,  and  is  told  by  ('herubino  Ghiradacei  in 
his  history  of  Bologna.     Her  lover  was  of  the  Guelphic  party,  her 


ITALY.  179 

fcrothers  of  the  Ghibelline  ;  and  no  sooner  was  this  act  of  violence 
made  known,  than  an  enmity,  hitherto  but  half  suppressed,  broke  out 
into  open  war.  The  Great  Place  was  a  scene  of  battle  and  blood- 
shed for  forty  successive  days  ;  nor  was  a  reconciliation  accomplished 
till  sis  years  afterwards,  when  the  families  and  their  adherents  met 
ihex'e  once  again,  and  exchanged  .the  kiss  of  peace  before  the  Cardi- 
lal  Legate ;  as  the  rival  families  of  Florence  had  already  done  in  the 
dace  of  S.  Maria  Novella.  Every  house  on  the  occasion  was  hung 
inth  tapestry  and  garlands  of  flowers. 

Note  46,  Page  90. 

from  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison. 
The  Saracens  had  introduced  among  them  the  practice  of  poison- 
ing their  daggers. 

Note  47,  Page  90. 
-Yet  when  Slavery  came, 


Worse  follow'd. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  noblest  works  of  human  genius  have 
been  produced  in  times  of  tumult ;  when  every  man  was  his  own 
master,  and  all  things  were  open  to  all.  Homer,  Dante,  au«i  Mlton 
appeared  in  such  times ;  and  we  may  add  Virgil. 

Note  48,  Page  91. 

Cruel  Tophana. 
A  Sicilian,  the  invontress  of  many  poisons ;  the  most  celebrated 
of  which,  from  its  transparency,   was  called  Acquetta,    or    Acqua 
Toj^hana. 

Note  49,  Page  93. 

Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills. 

CafFaggiolo,  the  favourite  retreat  of  Cosmo,  "the  ftither  of  his 
country."  Eleonora  di  Toledo  was  stabbed  there  on  the  11th  of 
July,  1576,  by  her  husband,  Pietro  de'  Medici ;  and  on  the  16th  of 
the  same  mouth,  Isabella  de'  Medici  was  strangled  by  hers,  Paolo 
Giordano  Orsini,  in  his  villa  of  Cerroto.  They  were  at  Florence, 
when  they  were  sent  for,  each  in  her  turn,  Isabella  under  the  pretext 
of  a  hunting-party  ;  and  each  in  her  turn  went  to  die. 

Isabella  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  women 
Df  the  age.     In  the  Latin,  French  and  Spanish  languages,  she  spoke 


180  ITALY. 

not  only  with  fluency,  but  elegance ;  and  in  her  own  she  excelled 
as  an  Improvisatrice,  accompanying  herself  on  the  lute.  On  her  ar- 
rival at  dusk,  Paolo  presented  her  with  two  beautiful  greyhounds, 
that  she  might  make  a  trial  of  their  speed  in  the  morning ;  and  at 
supper  was  gay  beyond  measure.  When  he  retired,  he  sent  for  her 
into  his  apartment ;  and,  pressing  her  tenderly  to  his  bosom,  slipped 
a  cord  round  her  neck. 

Eleonora  appears  to  have  had  a  presentiment  of  her  fate.  She 
went  when  required ;  but,  before  she  set  out,  took  leave  of  her  son, 
then  a  child  ;  weeping  long  and  bitterly  over  him. 

Note  50,  Page  102. 

The  Appian. 

The  street  of  the  tombs  in  Pompeii  may  serve  to  give  us  some 
idea  of  the  Via  Appia,  that  Kegina  Viarum,  in  its  splendour.  It  is 
perhaps  the  most  striking  vestige  of  antiquity  that  remains  to  us. 

Note  51,  Page  102. 

Horace  himself. 

And  Augustus  in  his  litter,  coming  at  a  still  slower  rate.  He  was 
borne  along  by  slaves  ;  and  the  gentle  motion  allowed  him  to  read, 
write,  and  employ  himself  as  in  his  cabinet.  Though  Tivoli  is  only 
sixteen  miles  from  the  city,  he  was  always  two  nights  on  the  road. — 
Suetonius. 

Note  52,  Page  103. 

The  centre  of  their  TJniverse. 
From  the  golden  pillar  in   the  Forum  the  ways  ran  to  the  gates, 
and  from  the  gates  to  the  extremities  of  the  empire. 

Note  53,  Page  103. 
To  the  twelve  tables. 
The  laws  of  the  twelve  tables  were  inscribed  on  pillars  of  brass, 
and  placed  in  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  Forum. — Dion.  Hal. 

Note  54.  Page  104. 
On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see. 
In  the  triumph  of  ^luilius,  nothing  affected  the  Roman  people 
like  the  children  of  Perseus.     Many  wept ;  nor  could  any  thing  else 
attract  notice,  till  they  were  goae  by. — Plutakcu. 


ITALY.  181 

Note  55,  Page  116. 

And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible. 

Whoever  has  entered  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's  or  the  Pauline 
Chapel,  during  the  exposition  of  the  Holy  Sacrament  there,  will  not 
soon  forget  the  blaze  of  the  altar,  or  the  dark  circle  of  worshippers 
kneeling  in  silence  before  it. 

Note  56,  Page  119. 

'T  was  in  her  utmost  need  ;  nor,  while  she  lives. 
Her  back  was  at  that  time  turned  to  the  people  ;  but  in  his  coun- 
tenance might  be   read   all   that  was  passing.     The  Cardinal,  who 
officiated,  was  a  venerable  old  man,  evidently  unused  to  the  ceremony 
and  much  affected  by  it. 

Note  57,  Page  120. 

The  black  pall,  the  requiem. 

Among  other  ceremonies,  a  pall  was  thrown  over  her,  and  a  re- 
quiem sung. 

Note  58,  Page  152. 

The  fishing-town,  Amalfi. 
"  Amalfi  fell,  after  three  hundred  years  of  prosperity ;  but  the 
poverty  of  one  thousand  fishermen  is  yet  dignified   by  the  remains 
of  an  arsenal,  a  cathedral,  and  the  palaces  of  royal  merchants." — 
Gibbon. 

Note  59,  Page  153. 

— relics  of  ancient  Greece. 

Among  other  things  the  Pandects  of  Justinian  were  found  there 
in  1137.  By  the  Pisans  they  were  taken  from  Amalfi,  by  the  Flo- 
rentines from  Pisa  ;  and  they  are  now  preserved  with  religious  care 
in  the  Laurentian  Library. 

Note  60,  Page  154. 
Serve  for  their  monument. 
By  degrees,  says  Giannone,  they  made  themselves  famous  through 
the  world.  The  Tarini  Amalfitani  were  a  coin  familiar  to  all  nations: 
and  their  maritime  code  regulated  every  where  the  commerce  of  the 
sea.  Many  churches  in  the  East  were  by  them  built  and  endowed ; 
b}'  them  was  first  founded  in  Palestine  the  most  renowned  military 
order  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  the 
Mariner's  compass  was  invented  by  a  citizen  of  Amalfi  ^ 


182  ITALY. 

Note  61,  Page  157. 

and  Posidonia  rose. 


Originally  a  Greek  city  under  that  name,  and  afterwards  a  Ko 
man  city,  under  the  name  of  Pajstum.     See  Mitford's  Histor}'  of 
Grreece,   chap.  x.  sec.  2.     It  was   surprised  and   destroyed  by   the 
Saracens  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century. 

Note  62,  Page  161. 

Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle. 

Then  degraded  and  belonging  to  a  Vetturino. 


Note  63,  Page  161. 

A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear. 
A  Florentine  family  of  great  antiquity.  In  the  sixty-third  novel 
of  Franco  Sacchetty  we  read  that  a  stranger,  suddenly  entering 
Giotto's  study,  threw  down  a  shield  and  departed,  saying,  "  Paint 
me  my  arms  in  that  shield ;  "  and  that  Giotto,  looking  after  him,  ex- 
claimed— "Who  is  he"?  What  is  he?  He  says,  'Paint  me  my 
ai-ms,'  as  if  he  was  one  of  the  Bardi !     What  arms  does  he  bear  ?  " 

Note  64,  Page  163. 

KufHing  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea 
The  Feluca  is  a  large  boat  for  rowing  and  sailing,  much  used  in 
the  Mediterranean. 

Note  65,  Page  166. 

A  house  of  trade. 
When  I  saw  it  in  1822,  a  basket-maker  lived  on  the  ground-floor 
and  over  him  a  seller  of  chocolate. 

Note  66,  Page  167. 

Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected. 
Alluding  to  the  palace  which  he  built  afterwards,  and  in  which 
he  twice  entertained  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,.     It  is  the  most 
magnificent  edifice  on  the  bay  of  Genoa. 


HUMAN    LIFE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Introdnction — Ringing  of  bells  in  a  neighbouring  Village  on  the  birth  of  ac 
heir — General  Reflections  on  Human  Life — The  Subject  Proposed — Child- 
hood— Youth — Manhood — Love — Marriage — Domestic  Happiness  and  Afflic- 
tion— War — Peace — Civil  Dissension — Retirement  from  active  Life — Old  Age 
and  its  Enjoyments — Conclusion. 


The  lark  lias  sung  liis  carol  in  the  sky  : 
Tlie  bees  have  kumm'd  their  noon-tide  lullaby. 
Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 
Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound : 
For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 
Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  praj  er. 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire, 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  si  iU 
hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin ; 
The  ale  now  brew'd,  in  floods  of  amber  shine : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled 
*'■  'T  was  on  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled.*" 


184  HUMAN    LIFE. 

And  soon  as^ain  shall  music  swell  the  breeze : 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  he  snug, 
And  violets  scatter'd  round  ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  greeu. 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour. 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been  ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before 

And  such  is  Human  Life ;  so  gliding  on. 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone  ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  chauge, 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 
StretchM  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire ; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour  ! 

Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire ; 
And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky  admire. 
Of  Eliin-size — for  ever  as  we  run, 
We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won ! 
We  erow  in  wisdom,  and  in  stature  too ! 
And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise  to  \aew, 
Think  nothing  done  while  aught  remains  to  do. 

Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eye-lids  close. 


HUMAN   LIFE.  lg.5 

And  from  the  slack  liand  drops  the  gather'd  rose ! 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie, 
While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by ! 
Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see  ; 
So  hke  what  once  we  were,  and  once  again  shall  be. 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent, 
The  boy  at  sun-rise  whistled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  shall  lean, 
Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green ; 
The  man  himself  how  alter'd,  not  the  scene ! 
Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the  name! 
Wayworn  and  spent,  another  and  the  same  ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the  decay : 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday ; 
And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to-day : 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles,  her  locks  grow  gi^ey ! 
And  in  her  o^lass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She  '11  see  so  soon  amidst  another  race. 
How  would  she  shrink  ! — Eeturning  from  afar, 
After  some  years  of  travel,  some  of  war, 
Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  unknown 
Before  a  wife,  a  father,  and  a  son  ! 

And  such  is  Human  Life,  the  general  theme. 
Ah,  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 
Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings  fraught, 
Such  forms  in  Fancy's  richest  colouring  wrought, 
That,  like  the  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain. 
Who  would  not  sleep  and  dream  them  o'er  again  ? 

Our  pathway  leads  but.  to  a  precipice  ; 
And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is  ! 
From  the  first  step  't  is  known ;  but — No  delay ! 


186  HUMAN   LIFE. 

On,  't  is  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 

A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 

— "Still,  could  I  sbun  the  fatal  gulf" — All,  no, 

'T  is  all  in  vain — the  inexorable  law  ! 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 

Verdure  springs  up  ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  invite 

And  groves  and  fountains — all  things  that  delight 

"  Oh,  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might !  " — 

We  fly  ;  no  restiug  for  the  foot  we  find ; 

All  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind  ! 

At  length  the  brink  aj)pears — but  one  step  more  ! 

We  faint — On,  on ! — we  falter — and  't  is  o'er  ! 

Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold, 
Prompting  to  noblest  deeds ;  here  links  of  gold 
Bind  soul  to  soul ;    and  thoughts  divine  inspire 
A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire 
That  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire ! 

Now,  seraph-wing'd,  among  the  stars  we  soar ; 
Now,  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  exj^lore, 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more  ; 
Or,  in  a  thankless  hour  condemn'd  to  live, 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give, 
And  dart,  like  Milton,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

Wealth,     Pleasure,    Ease,    all    thought   of    i 
resign'd, 
What  will  not  Man  encounter  for  Mankind  ? 
Behold  him  now  unbar  the  prison-door. 
And,  lifting  Guilt,  Contagion  from  the  floor, 
To  Peace  and  Health,  and  Light  and  Life  restor 
Now  in  Thermopylae  remain  to  share 
Death — nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  foo^-""*" 


HUMAN    LIFE.  137 

Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air ; 
And  now  like  Pylades  (in  Heaven  they  write 
Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 
Long  with  his  friend,  in  generous  enmity, 
Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die  ! 

Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  realize 
Half  he  cpnceives — the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  cannot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind. 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense. 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  Excellence, 
Passions,  that  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name. 
And  some,  not  here  call'd  forth,  may  slumber  on 
Till  this  vain  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone ; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here, 
Waiting  for  life — but  in  a  nobler  sphere  ! 

Look  where  he  comes  !  Rejoicing  in  his  birth, 
Awhile  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars — the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky 
To  him  shine  out  as  't  were  a  galaxy  ! 
But  soon  't  is  past — the  light  has  died  away  ! 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day), 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 
]\Iaking  night  beautiful.     'T  is  past,  't  is  gone, 
And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on 
Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray 
That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay. 
Sent  from  a  better  world  to  lio:ht  him  on  his  wa 

How  great  the  Mystery !     Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year,  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 


188  HUMAN   LIFE. 

The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  ricli  repose 
Of  Autumn,  and  tlie  Winter's  silvery  snows. 
Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  me  pursue. 
Himself  how  wondrous  in  his  chans^es  too  ! 
Not  Man  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den ; 
But  Man  call'd  forth  in  fellowship  with  men  ; 
School'd  and  train'd  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth ; 
God's  noblest  wo]*k — His  image  upon  earth ! 

The  hour  arrives,  the  moment  wish'd  and  fear'd , 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry ; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye ! 
He  comes — she  clasps  him.     To  her  bosom  press'd, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  Stranger  knows  ^ 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy. 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  fluno-, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue,) 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clinirs 
And  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lullinor  sona^  she  sing's. 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatino-s  of  his  heart. 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  .mother's  love  ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer. 


HUMAN   LIFE.  189 

Tellins:  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there ! — 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caiiglit 
His  wandering  eye — now  many  a  written  thought, 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  hsping  sweet 
His  moving,  murmuring  hps  endeavour  to  repeat. 

Released,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly ; 
Oh,  he  would  follow — follow  through  the  sky  ! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain, 
And  chides  and  buffets,  clinging  by  the  mane ; 
Then  runs,  and,  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side, 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage ;  or,  if  now  he  can, 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man, 
Flings  oft'  the  coat  so  long  his  pride  and  pleasure, 
And,  like  a  miser  dis^o-ing:  for  his  treasure, 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies. 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise ! 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight, 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight ! 

Ah  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away, 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day ! 
Now  is  the  May  of  Life.     Careering  round, 
Joy  wings  his  feet,  Joy  lifts  him  from  the  ground ! 
Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say, 
When  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 
"  These  are  my  Jewels !"     Well  of  such  as  he, 
When  Jesus  spake,  well  might  his  language  be, 
"Sufter  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  !" 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years  • 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  Intelligence  from  Heaven ; 


[90  HUMAX   LIFE. 

His  eyes  cast  downward  with  ingenuous  shame, 
His  conscious  cheeks,  conscious  of  praise  or  Mame, 
At  once  lit  up  as  with  a  holy  flame ! 
He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  sj^eaks  but  to  inquire , 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquish'd  to  the  Sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led, 
Holds  secret  converse  with  the  Mighty  Dead ; 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  weeps  as  they  inspire,  ^ 
Burns  as  they  burn,  and  with  congeni;d  fire ! 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate, 
Crown'd  but  to  die — who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  evrey  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  Sun 

Then  is  the  age  of  Admiration — Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men, 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground ! 
Ah,  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  "  Aspu'e  ! " 
Phantoms,  that  outward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass ; 
They,  that  on  Youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed, 
Of  e\'ery  age — ^the  living  and  the  dead ! 
Thou,  all-accomplish'd  Surrey,  thou  art  known ; 
The  flower  of  Knighthood,  nipt  as  soon  as  blown  I 
Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone  ! 
And,  with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 
One  who  lov'd  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 
Lo  the  Black  Warrior,  he,  who,  battle-spent, 
Bare-headed  served  the  Captive  in  kis  tent  I 


HUMAX   LIFE.  19] 

YouDcr  B  - —  in  tlie  o-roves  of  Academe, 
Of  wliere  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream , 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless  hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams — a  joy  for  years  to  come  ; 
Jr  on  the  Kock  within  the  sacred  Fane ; — 
Scenes  such  as  Milton  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
And  Milton's  self  (at  that  thrice-honoured  name 
Well  may  we  glow — -as  men,  we  share  his  fame) — 
And  Milton's  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye. 
Planning  he  knows  not  what — that  shall  not  die  ! 

Oh,  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  vii'tue  bold, 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold, 
The  asp  among  the  flowers.     Thy  heart  beats  high, 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground ; 
Danger  thou  lovest,  and  Danger  haunts  thee  round. 

Who  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain-side ; 
Then,  plunging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws  and  cries  ho  ;  and,  where  the  sun-beams  fall. 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  wail  ? 
Who  dances  without  music ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark — then  sighs  as  woe-begone. 
And  folds  his  arms,  and  where  the  willov^^s  wave, 
Glides  in  the  moon-shine  by  a  maiden's  grave  ? 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow : 
Yon  summer-clouds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 

He  hears  me  not — Those  sighs  were  from  the 
heart ; 
Too,  too  well  taught,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masques,  nor  feigning  nor  sincere, 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 


[92  HUMAN    LIFE. 

Lie  at  her  feet,  and  on  lier  slipper  swear 
Tliat  none  were  half  so  faultless,  half  so  fair, 
Now  throiio;h  the  forest  hies  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banish'd  man,  flying  when  none  are  near ; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song  ; 
Where  most  the  nymph,   that  haunts  the  silent 

grove, 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motley  clad  ; 
One  woeful-wan,  one  merrier,  yet  as  mad ; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.     Hope  shakes  his  cap  and 

bells. 
And  flowers  spring  up  among  the  woodland  dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Through  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  pleasure , 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 

At  length  he  goes — a  Pilgrim  to  the  Shrine, 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flower  let  fall — 
What  though  the  least.  Love  consecrates  them  all ! 
And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse  ; 
Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 
At  early  matins  ('t  was  at  matin-time 
That  first  he  saw  and  sicken'd  in  his  prime), 
And  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 
Plays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be'  controll'd. 

"  Absence  from  Thee — as  self  from  self  it  seems ! 
Scaled  is  the  garden  wall !  and  lo,  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 


HUMAN"    LIFE.  I93 

— Oil,  ere  in  siglit  he  came,  't  was  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him,  though  in  secret  still. 
"  Am  I  awake  ?  or  is  it — can  it  be 
An  idle  dream  ?    Nightly  it  visits  me ! 
— That  strain,"  she  cries,  "  as  from  the  water  rose 
Now  near  and  nearer  through  the  shade  it  flows  ! — 
Now  sinks  departing — sweetest  in  its  close  ! " 
No  casement  gleams ;  no  Juliet,  hke  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  the  aerial  music  heard  from  far, 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening  star. 

— "  She  loves  another  !  Love  was  in  that  sigh ! " 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  Youth,  beware.     Thy  heart  is  most  deceiv- 


mg. 


Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  belie^ang. 
— And  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow, 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now  ! 
She  flies  not,  frowns  not,  though  he  pleads  his  cause ; 
Nor  yet — nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws ; 
But  by  some  secret  Power  surprised,  subdued 
(Ah  how  resist  ?    Nor  would  she  if  she  could), 
Falls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  tiU  the  day  is  gone. 
Lost  in  each  other ;  and  when  Night  steals  on, 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents  are ! 
Oh  when  she  turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing ! — But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  bi'pak  the  silence — .Tov  like  his  like  hers 


194  HUMAN.  LIFE. 

Deals  not  in  words :  and  now  the  shadows  close, 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly  !     As  departs  the  day 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away, 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  Spirit  from  Heaven ! 

Then   are    they  blest   indeed;    and   swift   the 
hours 
Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers 
Kindling  her  beauty — while,  unseen,  the  least 
Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 
Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppressed. 
Then  before  Ail  they  stand — the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kiss'd  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters — there  to  be  a  light. 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing, 
Winning  him  back,  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
Back  from  a  world  we  love,  alas,  too  long. 
To  fire-side  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease, 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined ; 
Stni  subject — ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow. 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell ; 
And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly — ^pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  ! 


i 


HUMAI^    LIFE.  X()5 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  liill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 
i\nd  theii"  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling  boy, 
With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and  joy 
To  meet  him  coming ;  theirs  through  every  year 
Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear  ! 
And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 
Their  halls  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still, 
Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie, 
In  sleep  how  beautiful !     He,  when  the  sky 
Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony. 
When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  share 
His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 
Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 
Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet ; 
Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 
The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 
The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere ; 
Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 
That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry — 
When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he ! 
And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight. 
If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sio-ht 

J-  O 

Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 

Climb  the  gnarl'd  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again, 

If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all 

These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 

These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 

The  shepherd  on  Tornaro's  misty  brow. 
And  the  swart  sea-man,  sailing  far  below, 
Not  undeiighted  watch  the  morning  ray 


196  HUMAN    LIFE. 

Purpling  the  orient — till  it  breaks  away, 
And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day  ! 
But  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 
That  sun,  the  soul,  just  dawning  in  the  face ; 
The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 
The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life ; 
The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance, 
The  giant  waking  from  his  ten-fold  trance, 
Till  tip  he  starts  as  conscious  whence  he  came, 
And  all  is  li^i-ht  within  the  tremblins^  frame ! 

What  then  a  Father's  feelings  ?    Joy  and  Fear 
Prevail  in  turn,  Joy  most ;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly — from  a  wish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  Praise. 
Onward  in  their  observing  sight  he  moves, 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves  ! 
Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane  ? 
Who,  when  He  slumbers,  hope  to  fix  a  stain  ? 
Pie  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show. 
That  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they  go, 
Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  admire, 
"  They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire !  " 

But  Man  is  born  to  sutler.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  w^e  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire. 
And  Innocence  breathes  contagion — all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth — from  her  alone 


HUMAN    LIFE.  I9.7 

ITie  medicine-cup  is  taken.    Tliroiigli  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye : 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love  ? 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear, 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  grief  was  ours — -it  seems  but  yesterday — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'T  was  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  Sister's  arms  to  die  ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely — ^lovely  was  thy  frame. 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came ! 
And,  when  recall'd  to  join  the  blest  above, 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceedinsr  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.    In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  w^ove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  v/rite  on  thee ; 
And  now  I  write — what  thou  shalt  never  see  ! 

At  length  the  Father,  vain  his  power  to  save. 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  ffrave, 
(That  child  how  cherish'd,  whom  he  would  not  give^ 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  all  that  live  !) 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "  dust  to  dust "  is  said. 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes ;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief. 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infusing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 


198  HUMAN    LIFE. 

— But  hark,  tlie  din  of  arms !    no  time  for  sor- 
row ! 
To  liorse,  to  horse  !     A  day  of  blood  to-morrow  ! 
One  parting  pang,  and  tlieu — and  then  I  fly, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph — or  to  die ! — 
He  2:oes,  and  Nig^ht  comes  a«  it  never  came. 
With  shrieks  of  horror ! — and  a  vault  of  flame  ! 
And  lo  !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands ! 
But  hush  ! — a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands ! 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword ; 
One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Clings  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  forever  ! 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace — by  him  who  plays 
On  the  OTeat  stao^e  how  uneventful  thousrht ; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 
Such  as  the  heai't  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — in  more  than  words ! 
A  Holiday — the  frugal  banquet  sj)read 
On  the  fresh  herbao^e  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks — w^hat  time  the  wood-lark 

there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultr}^  air, 
What  time  the  king-iisher  sits  perch 'd  below, 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow : — 


HUMAN   LIFE.  I99 

A  Wake — tLe  booths  whitenine:  the  villao-e-o-feen. 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen ; 
Sign  l-)eyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurl'd, 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world ; 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale, 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale  : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night 
On  the  barn-floor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised  dower. 
And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower : — 
A  morning  visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
(Who  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread  ?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief, 
And  tears  are  falling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 
A  Walk  in  Spring — Grattan,  like  those  with  thee, 
By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me?) 
When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  bous^hs  at  noon ; 
And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 

Graver  thinoi:s 
Come  in  their  turn.     Morning,  and  Evening,  brings 
Its  holy  oflice ;  and  the  sabbath-bell. 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy, 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews, 
Nor  unattended  ;  and,  when  all  are  there. 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer, 


200  HUMAN   LIFE 

Tliat  House  with,  many  a  funeral-gai'land  liimg 

Of  virgiu-wMte — memorials  of  tlie  young, 

The    last   yet    fresli    when    marriage-chimes    were 

ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  springing; 
That  house,  where  Age.  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Theii'   looks    composed,    their   thoughts   on   things 

above. 

The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  wrongs  forgiven • 

Who  would  not  say  they  trod  the  path  to  Heaven  ? 

Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour — at  early  dawn — - 
Under  the  elm-tree  on  his  level  lawn. 
Or  in  his  porch  is  he  less  duly  found, 
When  they  that  cry  for  Justice  gather  round, 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  is  drown'd  ; 
His  then  to  hear  and  weigh  and  arbitrate, 
Like  Alfred  judging  at  his  palace-gate. 
Heal'd  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 

Thus,  while    the  world  but    claims    its  propel 

part, 
Oft  in  the  head,  but  never  in  the  heart. 
His  life  steals  on ;  within  his  quiet  dwelling 
That  home-felt  joy  all  other  joys  excelling. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he — -nor  then 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  men  ? 
— Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  the  sun  looks  in, 
And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song. 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong- 
Blend  as  they  rise  ;  and  (while  without  are 
Sure  of  theu*  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  i^i 


HUMA^^   LIFE.  201 

Aud  in  from  far  a  scliool-boy's  letter  flies, 
Flushing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (\yho  reads,  that  readsat  n' 
Born  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 
Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life. 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle  and  the  strife ! 

But  nothing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plow 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  him  now 
Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  knew, 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves — and  Virtue  too, 
She  who  subsists  not  on  the  vain  applause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws. 

'T  was  morn — the  sky-lark  o'er  the  furrow  sung 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  wrung ; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  till'd  of  old, 
The  plow  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 
Down  by  the  beech-wood  side  he  turn'd  away : — 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again — not  as  before, 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door, — 
But  in  the  Senate  :  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  jest,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry,) 
AVith  honest  dignity,  with  manly  sense. 
And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence. 
Like  Hampden  struggling  in  his  Country  s  cause, 
The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws, 
The  last  to  brook  oppression.     On  he  moves. 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin — ("For  the  general  good 
'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,  through  which  l:>efore 
Went  Sidney,  Russel,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 


202  HUMAN   LIFE. 

On  into  twili<rlit  witMn  walls  of  stone, 
Tlien  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone, 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life :  there,  on  that  awful  day, 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied- — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide. 
Like  that  sweet  Saint  who  sate  by  Russel's  side, 
Under  the  Judgment-seat, — But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again, 
Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo,  in  the  accustom'd  chair  and  at  the  board, 
Thrice  greeting  those  who  most   withdraw  their 

claim, 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name) 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
— On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo,  there  the  Friend,  Avho  entering  where  he  lay, 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear,  "  Away,  away  ! 
Take  thou  my  cloak — Nay,  start  not,  but  obey — 
Take  it  and  leave  me."     And  the  blushing  Maid, 
Who  through  the  streets  as  through  a  desert  stray'd ; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  pass'd  along, 
Would   not   be   held — but,    bufstins:   throug-h   the 

thronof, 
Halberd  and  battle-axe — kiss'd  him  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Then  turn'd  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before, 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more ! 
And  oh,  how  changed  at  once — no  heroine  liere, 
But  a  weak  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear, 
Her  darling  Mother  !     'T  was  but  now  she  smiled, 
And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child ! 


HUMAX    LIFE.  20H 

—But  wlio  sits  by,  her  only  wisli  below 

At  length  fuMird — and  now  prepared  to  go  ? 

His  bands  on  bers — as  tbrougb  tbe  mists  of  nigbt 

Sbe  gazes  on  bim  witb  imperfect  sight ; 

Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight ! 

To  her,  metbinks,  a  second  Youth  is  given  ; 

The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  Heaven ! 
An  hour  bke  this  is  worth  a  thousand  passVl 

In  pomp  or  ease — 'T  is  present  to  tbe  last ! 

Years  glide  away  untold — 'T  is  still  the  same  ! 

As  fresh,  as  fair  as  on  tbe  day  it  came  ! 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  be 

In  bis  own  fields — breathing  tranquillity — 

We  bail  bim — not  less  happy.  Fox,  than  thee  ! 

Thee  at  St.  Anne's  so  soon  of  care  beguiled. 

Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child  ! 

Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  the  spray 

Through  tbe  green  leaves  exploring  day  by  day. 
How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I  saw  the  sun  go  down ! — Ah,  then  't  was  thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 
Shakspear's   or  Dryden's — through  the    cbequer'd 

shade 
Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  stray'd ; 
And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 
To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own, 
And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone. 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown, 
Fit  theme  for  long  discourse — Thy  bell  has  toll  d ' 
— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 


•ii.' 


2Q4  HUMAN"   LIFE. 

'T  is  tlie  sixtli  hour. 
The  vilhio-e-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  plowman  leaves  the  field  ;  the  traveller  hears. 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

And  such,  his  labour  done,  the  calm  He  knows, 
Whose  footsteps   we   have   foUow'd.      Eound   him 

glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— ^And  from  the  Future  too !     Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger — ^in  his  morning  hours. 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed  ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving  time ;  and  now, 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough. 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  the  air 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
'Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire, 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  Nature  revell'd  unrestrain'd. 
And  Siubad  voyaged  and  the  Caliphs  reign'd  : — 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Eings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron  sail. 
Among  the  snowy  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immovable — forever  there  to  freeze ! 


HUMAN   LIFE.  205 

Or  some  great  caravan,  from  well  to  well 

Windiug  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell, 

In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids, 

To  Mecca  from  the  land  of  Pyramids, 

And  in  an  instant  lost — a  hollow  wave 

Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave  ! — - 

Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Venice — to  a  square 

Glittwino;  with  lio-ht,  all  nations  maskins:  there, 

With  hs'ht  reflected  on  the  tremulous  tide, 

Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide. 

Answering  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side  ; 

To  Naples  next — and  at  the  crowded  gate, 

Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement  wait, 

Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  bi-ings  in  his  Sire, 

Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  World  on  fire  ! 

Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 

A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it  not  ?) 

From  lute  or  organ !     'T  is  at  parting  given, 

That  in   their  slumbers  they  may  dream   of  Hea« 

ven ; 
Young  voices  mingling  as  it  floats  along, 
In  Tuscan  air  or  Handel's  sacred  sono- ! 

And  She  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all ; 
So  soon  to  weave  a  dau2:hter's  coronal, 

o  7 

And  at  the  nuptial  rite  smile  through  her  leurs ; — 

So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  fears. 

And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 

In  child-birth — when  a  mother's  love  is  most  nlive. 

No,  't  is  not  here  that  Solitude  is  known, 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.     Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  still ; 


20f)  HUMAIs^    LIFE. 

The  cricket  on  liis  lieartli ;  the  buzzing  ily 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky. 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by : 
And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemn'd  to  dwell, 
The  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell. 
He  feeds  his  spider — happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  himself  is  curst. 

O  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  like  the  day — who,  angel-like,  hast  shed 
Thy  full  effulgence  on  the  hoary  head. 
Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  voice, 
"  Look    up,    and    faint    not  —  faint    not,    but    re 

joice ! " 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him.     Age  has  now 
Stamp'd  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow ; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees. 
Trees  he  has  climb'd  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees : 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the  quoit  is  flung, 
When  side  by  side  the  archer's  bows  are  strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize. 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise  • 
His  a  delight  how  pure — ^without  alloy ; 
Sti'ong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy !    - 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day ; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  affc  rd 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  ''^alks 


HUMAIST    LIFE.  20i 

While   they  look   up !      Their   questions,  their   re- 
plies, 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise, 
Gladdening  his  spirit :  and,  his  theme  the  past. 
How  eloquent  he  is !     His  thoughts  flow  fast, 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh,  can  the  heart  grow  old 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  World  are  told  !) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end  ; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  Lis  o\Fn, 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone, 
Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more, 
Loved  and  still  loves — not  dead — but  gone  before. 
He  gathers  round  him ;  and  revives  at  will 
Scenes  in  his  life — that  breathe  enchantment  still — ■ 
That  come  not  now  at  dreary  intervals — 
But  where  a  light  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 
A  light  such  guests  bring  ever — pure  and  holy — 
Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy. 
— Ah  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 
To  live  with  others  than  to  think  on  them ! 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending. 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending ; 
Sustaiu'd,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run. 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest, 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redress'd. 
Those  by  the  World  shunn'd  ever  as  unblest, 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate. 
Come  and  stand  round — the  widow  with  her  cliild, 
As  when  she  fii'st  forgot  her  tears  and  smilod ! 


O0<^  HUMAN    LIFE. 

They,  wlio  watcli  by  liim,  see  not ;  but  he  sees, 
Sees  and  exults — Were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not ;  but  he  hears, 
And  earth  recedes,  and  Heaven  itself  appears ! 

'T  is  past !      That   hand  we   grasp'd,   alas, 
vain ! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting ;  and,  through  many  a  year, 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delio;ht 
The  words  so  23recious  which  we  heard  to-night ; 
His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows, 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  the  close ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then, 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men, 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  from  all  that  we  endure. 
He  slept  in  peace — say  rather,  soar'd  to  Heaven, 
Upborne  from  Earth  by  Him  to  whom  't  is  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 
— When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone ; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallow'd  night. 
Who  sate  and  watcli'd  in  raiment  heavenly- bright; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy,  not  fear. 
Says,  pointing  upward,  that  he  is  not  here. 
That  he  is  risen  ! 

But  the  day  is  spent. 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament. 
To  us  how  silent — though  like  ours  perchance 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance  ; 


HUMAN    LIFE.  209 

Where  some  the  paths  of  Wealth  and  Power  pursue  ; 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  few ; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round — a  sun  not  ours — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 
Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire. 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire ; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
AH  that  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair ; 
And,  as  they  wander,  picturing  things,  like  me, 
Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  ought  to  be. 
Trace  out  the  Journey  through  their  little  Day, 
And  fondly  dream  an  idle  hour  away. 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 


Villula, et  pauper  agelle, 

Me  tibi,  et  hos  una  mecum,  et  quos  semper  amari, 
Commendo. 


PREFACE. 

Evert  reader  turns  witli  pleasure  to  those  passages  of  Horace 
»nd  Pope,  and  Boileau,  which  describe  how  they  lived  and  whera 
they  dwelt ;  and  which,  being  interspersed  among  their  satirical 
writings,  derive  a  secret  and  irresistible  grace  from  the  contrast,  and 
are  admirable  examples  of  what  in  Painting  is  termed  repose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours.  We  enjoy  the  com- 
pany and  conversation  at  his  table;  and  his  suppers,  like  Plato's 
'•'  non  solum  in  praesentia,  sed  etiam  postero  die  jucundae  sunt."  But 
when  we  look  round  as  we  sit  there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabino 
farm,  and  not  in  a  Roman  villa.  His  windows  have  every  charm  of 
prospect ;  but  his  furniture  might  have  descended  from  Cincinnatus  ; 
and  gems,  and  pictures,  and  old  marbles,  are  mentioned  by  him  more 
than  once  with  a  seeming  iudifi'erence. 

His  English  Imitator  thought  and  felt,  perhaps,  more  correctly 
on  the  subject ;  and  embellished  his  garden  and  grotto  with  great 
industry  and  success.  But  to  these  alone  he  solicits  our  notice.  On 
the  ornaments  of  his  house  he  is  silent ;  and  he  appears  to  have  re- 
served all  the  minuter  touches  of  his  pencil  for  the  library,  the  chapel, 
and  the  banqueting-room  of  Timon.  "  Le  savoir  de  notre  siecle," 
says  Rousseau,  "  tend  beaucoup  plus  a  detruire  qu'a  edifier.  Ou  cen- 
sure d  un  ton  de  maitre;  pour  proposer,  il  en  faut  prendre  un  autre 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  211 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the  virtue  of  True 
Taste ,  and  to  show  how  little  she  requires  to  secure,  not  only  the 
comforts,  but  even  the  elegancies  of  life.  True  Taste  is  an  excellent 
Economist.  She  confines  her  choice  to  few  objects,  and  delights  in 
producing  great  effects  by  small  means  :  while  False  Taste  is  for  ever 
sifhiuo-  after  the  new  and  the  rare :  and  reminds  us,  in  her  works,  of 
the  Scholar  of  Apelles,  who,  not  being  able  to  paint  his  Helen  beau- 
tiful, determined  to  make  her  fine. 


ARGUMENT. 

Lu  invitation — The  approach  to  a  Villa  described — Its  situation — Its  few 
apartments — furnished  with  casts  from  the  Antique,  etc. — The  dining- 
room — the  library — A  cold-bath — A  winter-walk — A  summer-walk — The 
invitation  renewed — Conclusion. 

WiiETiT,  with  a  Reaumur's  skill,  thy  curious  mind 

Has  class'd  the  insect-tribes  of  human  kind. 

Each  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing, 

Its  subtle  net-work,  or  its  venom'd  sting  -, 

Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours, 

Pouit  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and  flowers ; 

The  shelter'd  gate  that  opens  to  my  field. 

And  the  white  front  through  mingling  elms  reveal'd 

In  vain,  alas,  a  village-friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  and  perfume  ; 
When  London  hails  thee  in  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabinets  of  art ; 
And,  lo,  majestic  as  thy  manly  song, 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home-prospects  of  my  hermit-cell ; 


212  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FEIEND. 

The  Diossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub-wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen  ; 
And  the  brown  pathway,  that,  with  careless  flow, 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  l^ids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits  the  pannier'd  ass  ; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight. 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight, 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottas^e-maid. 
With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain-vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village-spires : 
Its  upland-lawns,  and  cliffs  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  unsung : 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day. 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away  ! 

When    April-verdure     springs    in    Grosvenor 

square. 
And  the  furr'd  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
Slie  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more  ; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays. 
Though  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest 

blaze. 
As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  matin-song, 
Thouo:h  evenina:  lino;ers  at  the  mask  so  lonsf. 
There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away  ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel ; 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  2Vil 

The  ready  smile  and  hidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy  ; 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air, 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight, 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  quiet,  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold, 
Brio-ht    with  broad    mirrors,    rou2:h    with    fretted 

gold ; 
Yet  modest  ornament,  with  use  combined, 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  requires 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  though   no  marble  breathes,  no  canvas? 
glows. 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows ! 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will ; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  through  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art ; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine. 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine ; 
And  here  the  faithful  o-raver  dares  to  trace 
A  Michael's  grandeur,  and  a  Raphael's  grace ! 
Thy  Gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls, 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls  ! 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  s^nse  what  brighter  visions  rise ! 


214  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

O  mark  !  again  tlie  courses  of  the  Sun, 
At  Guide's  call,  their  round  of  glory  run ! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  errinof  friend  so  lonof  forirefc 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hue  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings ; 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endear'd ! 

Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours  ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers  1 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ; 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there. 
Pause,  and  his  features  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
— Ah,  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls, 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls ; 
Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet , 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat ! 

Though  my  thatch'd  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows^ 
A  limpid  stream  with  uufelt  current  flows, 
Emblem  of  Life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey. 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away  ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art. 
The  strength  and  beauty  that  its  waves  impart. 
Here  Thetis,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 
There,  Venus,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise, 
As  ber  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise ! 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEXD.  ^Ib 

Far  from  tlie  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 
These  eye-lids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 
And  close,  when  nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 
Here,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  gloves  ; 
There  noon-day  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Here  the  iiush'd  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light ; 
There  glimmering  lamps  anticij^ate  the  night. 
When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals, 
Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels, 
To  muse  unnoticed — while  around  him  press 
The  meteor-forms  of  equij^age  and  dress ; 
Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 
A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land  ! 
And  (though  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 
And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprest) 
Like  those  blest  Youths,  forgive  the  fabling  page, 
Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age. 
Spent  in  sweet  slumbers ;  till  the  miner's  spade 
Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  play'd. 
Ah  !  what  then*  strange  suj^plies,  their  wild  delight ! 
New  arts  of  life,  new  manners  meet  their  sisrht ! 
In  a  new  world  they  wake  as  from  the  dead; 
Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  \dsion  fled  ! 

O  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth. 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge  health ! 
Long,  in  this  shelter'd  scene  of  letter'd  talk. 
With  sober  stej)  repeat  the  pensive  walk  ; 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fail  to  please, 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease  ; 
Here  everv  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast. 
And  many  an  idle  hour — not  idly  pass'd. 


216  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    ERIEND. 

No  tuneful  eclioes,  ambush'd  at  m}'^  gate, 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Vain  of  it3  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell,  to  guide ; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  gray  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours  ! 

When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow. 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow  ; 
His     spangling    shower   when    Frost     the    wizard 

flings  ; 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings. 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eves ; 
— Thy  muflled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues. 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  wooes, 
Screened  from  the  arrowy  North  ;  and  duly  hies, 
To  meet  the  morning-rumour  as  it  flies ; 
To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 
The  motley  groups  that  fciithful  Teniers  drew. 

When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  through 
the  vale, 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale. 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile  ; 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile, 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Through  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimscr  ?ay ; 
Till  the  West-wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  O  Choisy  I  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FEIEND.  2\''i 

v^ain  is  tlie  blaze  of  wealtli,  tlie  pomp  of  power ! 
Lo,  liere,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene. 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  reveal'cl, 
Pure  and  unbought, — the  natives  of  my  field ; 
While  blushing  fi'uits  through  scatter'd  leaves  incite 
Still  clad  in  bloom,  and  veil'd  in  azure  light ! 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  Hoeace  sings. 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings. 
The  shifting  side-board  plays  its  humbler  part. 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art. 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought, 
My  Hfe  steals  on ;  (O  could  it  blend  with  thine !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide. 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide ; 
So,  till  the  laua-hina:  scenes  are  lost  in  nig-ht, 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight. 
Culling  unnumber'd  sweets  from  nameless  flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Kise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play. 
Caught  through  St.  James's  groves  a  blush  of  day ; 
Ere  its  fall  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Tlirough  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease. 
Though  skill'd  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please  ; 
Though  each  gay  scene  be  search'd  with  anxious  eye 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  pass'd  without  a  sigh. 


218  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  frieutl  no  mort 
Some,   Ibrm'd   like    thee,    should   once,    like   thct 

explore ; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  this  loved  retreat. 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet ; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  days. 
Some  grey  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise) 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest ; 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page, 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 
His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorn'd  the  false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
■ — One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew. 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas !  in  vain. 
Through  each  he  roves  the  tenant  of  a  day. 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away  I " 


JACQUELINE. 


T  WAS  Autumn  ;  tlirougli  Provence  liad  ceased 

Tlie  vintage,  and  tlie  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still. 

And  from  the  convent's  neighbouring  tower 

The  clock  had  toll'd  the  midnight-hour. 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone. 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown  ; 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears, 

Yet  ah,  how  lovely  in  her  tears  ! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye  ? 

What — but  her  shadow  gliding  by  ? 

She  stops,  she  pants ;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens — to  her  beating  heart ! 

Then,  through  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing, 

She  flies,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind, 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  home,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here, 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain-\7ine  o'ergrowm 


z' 


220  JACQUELINE. 

At  sncli  an  hour  in  sucli  a  night, 
So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright. 
Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confess'd 
It  looked  as  all  within  were  blest? 
What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  ? 
Yet  lost,  alas,  who  can  restore  her  ? 
She  hfts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves, 
And  now  the  world  is  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone 
And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone ! 
Oh  what  the  madd'nins^  thouo:ht  that  came  ? 
Dishonour  coupled  with  his  name  ! 
By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood  ; 
By  Turenne,  when  the  E-hine  ran  blood  ; 
Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 
Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave  ; 
JSTor  did  thy  Cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 
Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 
He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side. 
And  snatch'd  his  staif  and  rush'd  to  save 
Then  sunk — and  on  his  threshold  cried, 
*'  Oh  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 
— Constance  !   Claudine !  where  were  ye  then  'f 
But  stand  not  there.     Away !  away ! 
Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 
Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men. 
Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day :" 
Then,  and  he  shook  his  hoary  head, 
*'  Unhappy  in  thy  youth  !  "  he  said. 
"  Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain ; 
No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again, 
To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do ; 


JACQUELINE.  221 

Thy  play-mate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 

And  who  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy, 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy  ? 
Long  had  she  kiss'd  him  as  he  slept, 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept ; 
And,  as  she  pass'd  her  father's  door, 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  more. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  gone  for  ever ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her — never  ! 
They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears  ; 
And  he,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Ov^er  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears ! 

Oh  !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair ; 
None — none  on  earth  above  her ! 
As  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice, 
Her  every  gesture  said  "  rejoice," 
Her  coming  was  a  gladness  ; 
And.  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace. 
Her  down-cast  look  't  was  heaven  to  trace, 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted, 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes — how  eloquent ! 
Ask  what  they  would,  't  was  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame  ; 
—And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same  ! 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw, 


929  JACQUELINE. 


L  Uil 


His  songs  slie  sung  and  sung  again, 

Till  the  last  lio-lit  withdrew. 

Every  day,  and  all  day  long, 

He  mused  or  slumber'd  to  a  song, 

But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all !  . 

Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  wall ; 

And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door 

Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more  ! 

At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 

Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there ; 

She,  who  would  lead  him  where  he  went, 

Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant ; 

Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent ; 

At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook, 

Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book  ; 

And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould, 

(Queen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old,) 

Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold  ; 

Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 

Its  fragrant  dust  to  drowsy  senses. 

In  her  who  mourn'd  not,  when  they  miss'd  her, 

The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister  \ 

No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 

From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake. 

No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 

Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule, 

To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood. 

Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 

The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain, 

She  comes  not — nor  will  come  again  ! 

Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done, 

With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun ; 


JACQUELINE.  223 

Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain-side, 

(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 

Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  half-told 

To  him  who  would  not  be  denied.;) 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 

Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valombre, 

Where  't  is  night  at  noon  of  day ; 

Nor  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood, 

To  all  but  her  a  solitude, 

Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more. 

Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore, 

And  at  her  bidding  stood. 


n 


The  day  was  in  the  golden  west ; 

And,  curtain'd  close  by  leaf  and  flower, 

The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 

In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower  ; 

The  doves — that  still  would  at  her  casement  peck, 

And  in  her  walks  had  ever  flutter'd  round 

With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck. 

True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 

That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 

Plalf  open  to  the  western  breeze, 

Look'd  down,  enchanting  Graronnelle, 

Thy  wild  and  mulberry-shaded  dell. 

Round  which  the  Alps  of  Piedmont  rose, 

The  blush  of  sun-set  on  their  snows : 

While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 

AVhen  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn. 


224  JACQUELINE. 

When  liarebells  blow  in  every  grove, 
And  thruslies  sino;  "  I  love  !  I  love !  "  * 
Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 
Scatters,  and  't  is  fair  again  ; 
Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 
To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been), 
Within  lay  Fi'ederic,  o'er  and  o'er 
Building  castles  on  the  floor,* 
And  feigning,  as  they  grew  in  size 
New  troubles  and  new  dangers ; 
With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes. 
As  he  and  Fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne  ; 
But  every  leaf  was  turn'd  in  vain. 
Then  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
And  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  awhile  refuse ; 
Yet  who  can  for  another  choose  ? 
^Hien  her  young  blushes  had  reveaFd 
Tiie  secret  from  herself  conceal'd, 
Why  promise  what  her  tears  denied, 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride  ? 
— Wouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thou  art, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  pai-t, 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart  ? 
Oh  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean-wave,  the  mountain- wind ; 
Or  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  ground 

*  Ciintando  ''loamo!  loamo! — Tasao. 


JACQUELINE.  225 

To  stop  tlie  planet  rolling  round 

The  light  was  on  liis  face ;  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven — 
Resentment,  Pity,  Hope,  Despair — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 
Now  he  sigh'd  heavily  ;  and  now, 
His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow, 
He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 
To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down : 
— When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore* 
Who  wagg'd  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 
Manchon,  who  long  had  snuff'd  the  ground, 
And  sought  and  sought,  but  never  found, 
Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew, 
And  look'd  and  bark'd  and  vanish'd  through. 
"  'T  is  Jacqueline !     'T  is  Jacqueline ! " 
Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 
"  I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green. 
She  comes  along  the  mountain-side ; 
Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 
Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 
Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet, 
To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 
And  by  the  soldier's  cloak  I  know 
(There,  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 
D'Arcy,  so  gentle  and  so  brave ! 
Look  up — why  will  you  not  ? "  he  cries 
His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes ; 
For  on  that  incense-breathing  eve 
The  sun  shone  out  as  loth  to  leave. 


^     A  t*'T»ic 


220  JACQUELINE. 

"  See  to  tlie  rugged  rock  slie  clings ! 
She  calls,  slie  faints,  and  D'Arcy  springs, 
D'Arcy  so  dear  to  us,  to  all ; 
Who,  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 
When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall. 
Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me ! " 

And  true  it  was !    And  true  the  tale  ! 
When  did  she  sue  and  not  prevail  ? 
Five  years  before — ^it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  ]3arted, 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted ; 
The  drum — it  drown'd  the  last  adieu. 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
"  One  charge  I  have,  and  one  alone, 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take, 
My  father — if  not  for  his  own, 
Oh  for  his  daughter's  sake  ! " 
Inly  he  vow'd — "  't  was  all  he  could  !  " 
And  went  and  seal'd  it  with  his  l^loocl. 

Nor  can  ye  wonder.     When  a  child. 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled, 
Uj)  many  a  ladder-path  *  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided. 
Through  many  a  misty  grove. 
They  loved — but  under  Friendship's  name 
And  Reason,  Virtue  fann'd  the  flame ; 
Till  in  their  houses  Discord  came, 
And  't  was  a  crime  to  love. 
Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do  ? 

*  Called  in  the  language  of  the  country  pas  de  VEcheli^. 


JACQUELINE.  22*7 

Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew, 
And  when  to  soothe,  and  when  persuade ; 
But  now  her  path  De  Courcy  cross'd, 
Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade — 
He  turn'd,  beheld,  admired  the  maid ; 
And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost ! 
De  Courcy,  lord  of  Argentiere  ! 
Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St.  Pierre, 
Thy  thii'st  for  vengeance  sought  the  snare 
The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited ; 
The  bridegroom,  at  the  gate,  alighted ; 
When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell 
A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell. 
And  lo,  an  humble  Piedmontese, 
Whose  music  might  a  lady  please. 
This  message  through  the  lattice  bore 
(She  listen'd,  and  her  trembling  frame 
Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came), 
"  Oh  let  us  fly — to  part  no  more  ! " 

III. 

That  morn  ('t  was  in  Ste.  Julienne's  cell, 

As  at  Ste.  Julienne's  sacred  well 

Their  dream  of  love  began), 

That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set, 

Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 

Before  the  holy  man. 

— And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last ; 

The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  pass'd. 

Where,  when  Toulouse,  thy  splendour  shone 

The  Troubadour  would  journey  on 


f^38  JACQUELINE. 

Transported — or,  from  grove  to  grove, 

Framing  some  roundelay  of  love, 

Wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline ! 

Oh  tremble  not — but  trust  in  me. 

The  good  are  better  made  by  ill, 

As  odours  crushVl  are  sweeter  still ; 

And  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been. 

Bright  shall  thy  future  be  !  " 

So  saying,  through  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid, 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  play'd : 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave, 

Where  by  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand. 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  lamps  at  eve, 

And  fairies  dance — in  fairy-land, 

(When  Lubin  calls  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see  ; 

And  many  an  acorn-cup  is  found 

Under  the  greenwood  tree) 

From  every  cot  above,  below, 

They  gather  as  they  go — 

Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette. 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandam's  blessing! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet. 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet. 

The  lovely  bride  caressing  ; 

Babes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 

And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung  ? 
Ah,  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength ; 


JACQUELINE.  ooq 

For  ronnd  him,  as  for  life  she  clung ! 

And  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 

Onward  they  moved  a  little  space, 

And  saw  an  old  man  sitting  at  the  door, 

Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 

That  seem'd  to  gaze  on  vacancy, 

Then,  at  the  sight  of  that  loved  face, 

At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew ; 

But — not  encouraged — back  she  drew, 

And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense. 

Her  tears  her  only  eloquence ! 

All,  all — the  while — an  awful  distance  keeping 

Save  D Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 

And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers, 

Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 

Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasp'd  her  father's  knees  and  spoke, 
Her  brother  kneeling  too ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  look'd  on. 
Though  from  his  manly  cheek  was  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

"  His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard, 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won ; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  Sire  has  err'd, 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  Son  ! — 
She,  whom  in  joy,  in  grief  you  nursed  ; 
Who  climb'd  and  call'd  you  father  fii^t, 
By  that  dear  name  conjures — 
On  her  you  thought — ^l)ut  to  be  kind ! 
When  look'd  you  up,  but  you  inclined  I 
These  things,  for  ever  in  her  mind. 
Oh  are  they  gone  from  yours  ^ 


230  JACQUELINE. 

Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  "behold ; 

One — one  how  young  ; — nor  yet  the  other  old. 

Oh  spurn  them  not — nor  look  so  cold — 

If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away, 

Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 

Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you  ! — 

She  listen'd,  and  she  found  it  true." 

He  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow ; 
And  twice  he  turn'd,  and  rose  to  go. 
She  hung  ;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 
If  tears  and  smiles  together  came  ? 
"  Oh  no — be2:one !  I'll  hear  no  more." 
But  as  he  spoke  his  voice  relented. 
"  That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 
When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Roc  consented ; 
True,  I  have  done  as  well  as  suffer'd  wrousr, 
Yet  once  I  loved  him  as  my  own  ! 
— Nor  canst  thou,  D'Arcy,  feel  resentment  long ; 
For  she  herself  shall  plead,  and  I  atone. 
Henceforth,"  he  paused  awhile,  unmann'd, 
For  D'Arcy's  tears  bedew'd  his  hand  ; 
''  Let  each  meet  each  as  friend  to  friend, 
All  things  by  all  forgot,  forgiven. 
And   that   dear   Saint  —  may   she   once  more   de» 

scend 
To  make  our  home  a  heaven  ! — 
But  now,  in  my  hands,  yours  with  hers  unite. 
A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight ! 

■ Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 

All  hearts  shall  sing  '  Adieu  to  sorrow ! ' 
St.  Pierre  has  found  his  child  to-day  ; 
And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow." 


ITALY. 


231 


Had  Louis*  then  before  the  gate  dismounted, 

Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun ; 

Like  Henry,  when  he  heard  recountedf 

The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done, 

(That  night  the  miller's  maid,  Colette, 

Sung,  while  he  supp'd,  her  chansonnette) 

Then — when  St.  Pierre  address'd  his  village-train. 

Then  had  the  monarch,  with  a  sigh,  confess'd, 

A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossess'd, 

— Without  it  what  are  all  the  rest  ? — 

To  love  and  to  be  loved  again. 

*  Louia  the  Pourteenth. 

f  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France ;  similar 
to  ours  of  "  The  King  and  Miller  of  Mansfield." 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE   SAILOR. 


The  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  Ms  native  sliore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade  ; 
He  climbs  tlie  mast  to  feed  liis  eye  once  more^ 
And  busy  Fancy  fondly  lends  lier  aid. 

All !  now  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recall'd  and  cherish'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view  ; 
Its  colours  mellow'd,  not  impair'd,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Through  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main  ; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  see  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line. 
Or  Eve's  grey  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave ; 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight-darkness  join. 
Still,  stUl  he  views  the  parting  look  she  gave 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  OPi? 

aJ  fj  K^ 

Her  gentle  spirit,  liglitly  hovering  o'er, 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole ; 
And  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar. 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul. 

Cfirved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest,  waving  wide  ; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painjted  plumage  rove, 
And  giant  palms  o'er-arch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend  ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale, 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

— 'T  is  she,  't  is  she  herself !  she  waves  her  hand ! 
Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvass  furl'd ; 
Soon  through  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT,  1786. 

While  through  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  sighs, 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave ! 


234  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO    TWO   SISTERS.* 

Well  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Look  in  each,  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears. 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief. 
Oh  she  was  great  in  mind,  though  young  in  years ! 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke,  and  kindled  sweet  surprise, 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  sjjread, 
Play'd  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade 
Still  to  the  last  enliven'd  and  endear'd. 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  convey'd. 
And  ever  beam'd  dehght  when  you  appear'd. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below. 
That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew  ? 
False  were  the  tints !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  distemper  threw ! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves ! 
(Glory  and  joy  reserv'd  for  you  to  share.) 
Far,  fai-  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves 
Than  thev,  alas !  unconscious  of  her  care. 

*  Ou  iLe  (Icatli  of  a,  younger  sister. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS.  235 


TO   AN   OLD   OAK. 

Immota  manet ;  multosque  nepotes, 

Multa  virum  volveiis  durando  sfficula,  vincit.     Virg. 

Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move  ! 
From  tliee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe  ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above. 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  steel-clad  knight  reclined, 
His  sable  plumage  tempest-toss'd  ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
His  brow  the  hero  cross'd ! 

Then  Culture  came,  and.  days  serene ; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  cross'd  the  green  ; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 

Father  of  many  a  forest  deep. 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder-fraught ! 
Erst  in  thy  acorn- cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  worst  to  sweep. 
Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 


236  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Wont  in  tlie  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian  spell 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Of  him  who  came  to  die ! 


FROM   EURIPIDES. 

Theee  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock, 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild  madrigals. 
Dip  theii'  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear. 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  I  saw  hei 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'T  was  heaven  to  look  upon ;  and  her  sweet  voice 
As  tunable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 

Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  bii'ds  build  there ;  and  at  summer-noon 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers. 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  conceal'd. 
Sing  to  herself        *  ^-  * 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  237 


TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST.* 

Vane,  quid  affectus  faciem  mihi  ponere,  pictor  ? 

Aeris  et  linguae  sum  filia ; 

Et,  si  vis  similem  pingere,  pinge  sonem.     Ausoniua. 

Once  more,  Enchantress  of  tlie  soul, 
Once  more  we  liail  thy  soft  control. 
— Yet  wliither,  whither  didst  thou  fly  1 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell  ? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 
Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Kesolved  and  unresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  Tempest  bore ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
'Mid  Echoes  yet  untuned  by  song ; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  Frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  Ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou !  't  was  thine  to  sou.' 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  ? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 

*  In  the  winter  of  1805. 


238  MISCELLANEOUS    POEiHS. 

No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain.    Tliy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amidst  the  Cherub-choir ; 
x\nd  there  awhile  to  thee  't  was  given 
Once  more  that  Voice  *  beloved  to  join, 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And  nursed  tliy  infant  years  with  many  a  strain 
from  Heaven ! 


ON  A   TEAR. 

Oh  !  that  the  Chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell. 

Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 


Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright. 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  liove  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

*  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  239 

The  sage's  and  tlie  poet's  tlieme, 
In  every  clime,  in  every  age ; 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

I'jiat  very  law  *  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sj^here 
And  guides  the  planets  in  theii*  course. 


ON  ASLEEP. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 
Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes. 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile. 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure !     Above  control. 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary  ! 

*  The  law  of  gravitation. 


2iO  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND 

'"  Say,  what  remains  wlien  Hoj^e  is  fled  ? " 
She  answei'd,  "  Endless  weeping  ! " 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Emhsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
The  stag  was  roused  on  barden-fell ; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying ; 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood, 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest-green. 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen. 
Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore ; 
But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 
And  the  river  rushes  through. 
His  voice  was  heard  no  more ! 
'T  was  but  a  step  !  the  gulf  he  pass'd ; 
But  that  step — it  was  his  last ! 
As  through  the  mist  he  wing'd  his  way 
(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  day), 
The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 
The  Master  and  his  merlin  too. 
That  narrow  place  of  noise  aiid  strife 
Keceived  their  httle  all  of  Life  ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung  ; 

The  "  Miserere  ! "  duly  sung  ; 

And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 

Are  waudering  up  and  down  the  wood. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  241 

But  what  avail  they  ?     Ruthless  Lord, 

Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 

Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 

The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 

Sit  now  and  answer  groan  for  groan, 

The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 

And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there, 

The  mother  in  her  long  despair. 

Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleej)ing. 

Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping; 

Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 

When  red  with  blood  the  river  roll'd. 


A  CHARACTEK. 


As  through  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals, 
And  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known, 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own. 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

On  thee  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers  ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice ; 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace, 
Smiles  through  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice, 

16 


242  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Spare  the  fine  tremours  of  lier  feeliug  frame ! 
To  thee  she  turns — forgive  a  virgin's  fears  ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  teuderest  claim : 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears  ! 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires. 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play ! 
What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day, 
And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend ! 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thouo^ht ! 
That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer-path  with  flo^vers ; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught, 
Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours  ! 


THE  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
A.nd  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  243 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew, 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  many  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  sj^ire  to  heaven. 


TO 


An  !  little  thought  she,  when,  with  wild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 
When  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw. 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept. 
That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 
That  she  should  die — nor  watch'd,  alas,  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 
There  didst  thou  stand — there,  with  the  smile  she 

knew. 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes ;  still,  still  the  same 
As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by ! 
To  thee,  how  changed !  comes  as  she  ever  came, 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye  ! 

*  On  the  death  of  her  sister. 


244  MISUELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears, 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 
By  the  way-side  she  shed  her  parting  tears — 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth  ! 


CAPTIVITY. 

Caged  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  wake 

When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 

Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free, 

Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 

In  vain !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears, 

Nor  moved  by  gold — nor  to  be  moved  by  tears; 

And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 

On  the  green-mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


A  FAREWELL. 

Once  more,  enchanting  maid  adieu  ! 
I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may; 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you, 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face, 
For  ever  changing,  yet  the  same, 
Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fii*es  my  frame  ! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go. 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest. 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest. 


:JISCELLANE0US    poems.  9145 

— Say,  when  to  kindle  soft  delight, 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  miae  to  meet, 
How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet  ? 

O  say — ^but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu  !  a  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
— ^Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me, 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


TO  THE  FRAGMENT  OF  A  STATUE  OF  HEPtCULES, 
COMMONLY  CALLED  THE  TORSO. 

And  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone, 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  in  chaos  hurl'd), 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world  ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? . 
Wliat  though  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  that  swept 
Rome  fi'om  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  'mid  tower  and  temple  sunk: 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  't  was  thine  to  risb. 
Still,  still  unquell'd  thy  glorious  energies  ! 
Aspii'ing  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought ; 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spell  in  secret  given. 
To  draw  down  Gods,  and  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven ! 


246  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

Deak  is  mv  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there  ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree , 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  libertv. 

ft/ 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle -bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound ; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laur  el  weave, 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade, 
These  simple  joys  that  never  fail. 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  deli2:ht  she  kneels. 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall. 
See  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 
O  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  247 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND, 
SEPTEMBER  2,  1812. 

Blue  was  tlie  locli,  tlie  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben  Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee  ;  when  t  he  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 
Thy  kutyard  wall  among  the  trees. 
Where,  grey  with  age,  the  dial  stands 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me  ! 
— ^Though  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed, 
Beloved  Sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy-isles  fled  far  away  ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
V/here  shei^herd-huts  are  dimly  seen. 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day  ; 
That,  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead  : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Hob  Roy*  the  boatman  told  ; 
His  arm,  that  fell  below  his  knee, 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,  thy  shore  I  climb 'd  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  pass'd, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
And  look'd  upon  another  flood  ;f 
Great  Ocean's  self!  ('T  is  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills)  ; 

*  A  famoiis  Outlaw.  f  Loch-Long. 


248  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round 
Who  threads  unshod  his  classic  ground  ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  iiew ; 
The  sea-bird  rusthng,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 
Black  and  huo^e  above  the  tide  ; 
The  cliffs  and  promontorie  s  there. 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare ; 
Each  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 
The  shatter'd  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 
Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rush'd  in  vain, 
Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  : 
All  into  midnight-shadow  sweep, 
When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep 
Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 
The  -prow  wakes  splendour ;  and  the  oar, 
That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before. 
Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 
Glad  sign,  and  sure !  for  now  we  hail 
Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale; 
And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be 
That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  thee ! 

Oh  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Toll'd  duly  on  the  desert  air, 
And  crosses  deck'd  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  24*3 

Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 
Amid  tlie  hum  and  stir  of  men, 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall, 
Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail. 
And  her — the  Lady  of  the  Grlen. 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  fliglit, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky. 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstacy ! 
— Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wi'ought  a  tomb,  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day  1 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE  DEDICATED  TO  THE 

GRACES. 

Appeoach  with  reverence.     There  are  those  within 
Whose   dwelling  place  is    Heaven.      Daughters   oi 

Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  life ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  Virtue's  self 
Admired,    not   loved;    and  those   on    whom    they 

smile. 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful, 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


250  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


WKITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER   ABBEY,  OCTOBER 

10,  1806. 

Whoe'er  tliou  art,  approacli,  and,  witli  a  sigh, 
Mark  wliere  tlie  small  remains  of  greatness  lie. 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  Fox,  for  ever  gone : 
How  near  the  Place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 
And,  though  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  Prayer, 
Though  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 
Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas  !  at  best  as  transient  and  as  vain. 
Still  do  I  see  (while  through  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral-song  once  more  proclaims  the  rite) 
The  moving  Pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 
That,  like  a  Darkness,  fill'd  the  solemn  Pile ; 
The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led, 
Of  those  that  loved  Him  living,  mourn'd  Him  dead 
Of  those  the  Few,  that  for  their  Country  stood 
Kound  Him  who  dared  be  singularly  good : 
All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claim'd  Him  for  their  own 
And  nothing  wanting — but  himself  alone  ! 

Oh  say,  of  Him  now  rests  there  but  a  name ; 
Wont,  as  He  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame  ? 
Friend  of  the  Absent,  Guardian  of  the  Dead  ! 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed  ? 
(Such  as  He  shed  on  Nelson's  closing  grave  ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  symj^athy  He  gave  !) 
In  Him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong, 
The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew — 
Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too? 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  25] 

Wliat  tliouo;"li  witli  War  tlie  maddinsf  nations  runs;' 
"  Peace,"  when  He  spoke,  was  ever  on  liis  tongue  ! 
Amidst  tlie  frowns  of  Power,  the  tricks  of  State, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligentl}-  great ! 
In  vain  malignant  vapours  gather'd  round ; 
Pie  walk'd,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  Orb  of  day, 
Reflect  its  splendour,  and  dissolve  away ! 

When  in  retreat  He  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  letter'd  ease  and  calm  Philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
^Tiere  still  his  god-like  Spirit  deigns  to  rove  ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer. 
For  many  a  deed,  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallow'd  page ; 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage ; 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied, 
Whom  most  He  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  He  died> 

Friend  of  all  human-kind  !   not  here  alone 
(The  voice  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Wilt  Thou  be  missed. — O'er  every  land  and  sea. 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  Thee  ! 
And,  when  the  storm  is  hush'd — in  distant  years- 
Foes  on  Thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears ! 


TO 


Go — yon  may  call  it  madness,  folly ; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Oil  if  you  knew  tlae  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  wlien  I  sigh, 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-BREAK. 

The  sun-beams  streak  the  azure  skies, 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  bro^v=p ; 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise, 
And  chase  the  roe-buck  through  the  snow 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass  ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound 
Kend  from  above  a  frozen  mass. 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude  ; 
Mark'd  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey, 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  cliffs  reply. 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning  cloud, 
Perch'd,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


AN  INSCRIPTION. 

Shepiterd,  or  Huntsman,  or  worn  Mariner, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thii'st 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  2.53 

iJriiik  and  be  glad.     This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arch'd  and  o'erwrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse, 
This  iron  cup  chain'd  for  the  general  use, 
•And  these  rude  seats  of  earth  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  Fatima.     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'T  was  here  she  turn'd  from  her  beloved  sire, 
To  see  his  face  no  more.     Oh  if  thou  canst, 
('T  is  not  far  off)  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers  ; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scoop'd  in  the  marble  there, 
That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holy  !* 

*  A  Tcikish  BuperstitioB, 


THE 

PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 


PART  I. 


Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
¥/itli  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Still'd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  theu^  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock'd  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wlieel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear ! 

Mark   yon   old  Mansion  frowning  through  the 

trees. 
Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistlino^  breeze. 
That  casement  arch'd  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The  mouldering    gateway    strews  the   grass-grown 

court. 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMOBY.  255 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new 
And  the  heart  promised  ^vhat  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stain'd  with  dews,   with  cobwebs  darkly 
hung. 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  there  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound 
And  turn'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  fancy  flutter'd  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain'd  each  wondering  ear 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babe  we  wander'd  in  the  wood. 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood : 
Oft  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  starthng  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murder'd  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 


256  ROGERS'S 

Ye  Houseliold  Deities !    whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,  ere  registered  on  high ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feeling^s  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight. 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight ; 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  manv-colour'd  chart, 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simjole  chime, 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence    the    caged    linnet    soothed    my    pensive 

thought ; 
Those  muskets  cased  with  venerable  rust ; 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  through  their 

dust. 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring ! 


PLEASUEES    OF    MEMORY.  957 

How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  touch  of  Time  ; 
Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  j^leased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shade ; 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  ssat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene, 
The  tangled  wood-walk  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memoey  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live  ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 
Thou  first  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below, 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke  ! — ^to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When    o'er   the   landscape   Time's   meek   twilight 

steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day. 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd, 
Glance  on  the  darken'd  mii'ror  of  the  mind. 

The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses 

Just  tell  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  srave  a  pause  to  care. 


258  ROGEES'S 

Up  springs  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherisli'd  liere ; 
And  not  tie  lio^litest  leaf,  but  trembling-  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams ! 

Down  by  yon  liazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe, 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore. 
Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ; 
Whose  dark  eyes  flash'd  through  locks  of  blackest 

shade. 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bay'd : — 
And  heroes  fl.ed  the  Sibyl's  mutter'd  call, 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-T^'all. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew. 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searchino^  view 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 

fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flush'd  my  brenst ; 
This  truth  once  known — To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray,) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  httle  was  no  more. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  259 

He  breathed  liis  prayer,  "  Long  may  sucL  gooduess 

live ! " 
"T  was  all  he  gave,  't  was  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,  when  Mercy's  mandate  wing'd  their  flight, 
Had  stopt  to  dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight. 

But  hark !  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen 
swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes  !  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell ! 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door. 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  throusch  the  rino-. 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turn'd  the  greensward  with  his  spade, 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  play'd ; 
And  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush  !  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  moulderino:  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !    Instructors  of  my  youth  ! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  Truth ; 
Whose  every  word  enlighteu'd  and  endear'd  ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered ; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  live. 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Ai't  can  give. 


260  ROGERS'S 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined ! 

Ethereal  Power  !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far-.fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
AVhich  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ; 
Blest  Memoey,  hail !    Oh  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empii^e  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lull'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise !  * 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  files. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Dehght  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades :  yet  all,  with  magic  art. 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 
Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  tlie  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course. 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play ; 

*  ITamque  illic  posuit  solium,  et  sua  tenipla  sacravit 
Mens  auirai :  lianc  circuin  coeniit,  deu^oque  feruutur 
Agmine  notitite.  simulacraque  tenuia  reruin. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  2()1 

Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 

At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Keason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 
What  diiferent  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind ! 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought ; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share. 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees. 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep ; 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks. and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Ttjpia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before. 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  woo'd  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  theii'  strange  expanse  of  sail : 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watch'd  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast, 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening-sky. 


2G2  ROGEES'S 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawn'd  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless'd  the  beacon's  glimmering  height^ 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray'd 
Each  castle  clift^  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touch'd  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire, 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's  sigh ; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  young  Foscaei,  "whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey. 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart ; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale, 
Glance  through  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  the  gale , 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell. 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
'T  was  ever  thus.     Young  Ammon,  when  he  sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelides  fought, 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  268 

Sate  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 
Steer'd  through  the  waves ;  and  when  he  struck  the 

land, 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 
PELiDES-like,  he  leap'd  the  first  ashore ; 
'T  was  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom . 
So  TuLLY  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime  ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honour'd  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  Sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musinar,  when  he  roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ! 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul ! 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  the  shade ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep. 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace  ; 


2(54  EOGERS'S 

"VVliat  tliougli  the  fiend's  torpedo-toucli  arrest 
Eacli  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
Still  shall  this  active  princij^le  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 
The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore 
Condemn'd  to  climb  his  mountain-cliiis  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild. 
Which  on  those  cliffs  his  infant  hours  beguiled, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm : 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm  ; 
Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  freedom 

bled, 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resign'd, 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade. 
In  calm  Solona's  philosophic  shade. 
Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a  throne 
To  muse  with  monks  unletter'd  and  unknown. 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claim'd  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ei'e  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppress'd. 

Undamp'd  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows ; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail : — 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  ogK 

The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 

And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture  round 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale ; 
Oft  have  his  hps  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  d.ay  declined. 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warr'd  the  winter-wind ; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear. 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 
The  track  that  shunn'd  his  sad,  enquiring  eye ; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent. 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm'd  hand  the  careless  rein  resign'd. 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanish'd  from  his  mind. 

He  call  the  traveller,  whose  alter'd  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
And  who  will  iii'st  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog 's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Though  all  that  knew  him,  know  his  face  no  more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each. 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 


266  EOGEKS'S 

These,  wlien  to  guard  Misfortune's  sacred  grave, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her 

flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  bless'd  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  I'ise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies  : — 
'T  is  vain !  through  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she  goes, 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird!      thy  truth   shall  Harlem's   walls 

at/test, 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  ask'd,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief. 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour  clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'T  was  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ; 
Alas !  't  was  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crush'd  by  her  meagre  hand,  when  welcomed  from 

the  sky. 

Hark !  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  hoi'u, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course. 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'T  is  noon,  't  is  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought. 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined ! 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  267 

Who  guides  the  patient  pDgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charm'd  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail  Memoey,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


NOTES 

PLEASURES    OE    MEMORY. 


PART  I. 


P.  256,  L  27. 

How  oft,  when  pui-jjie  evening  tin^eu  the  west. 

Virgil,  in  one  of  bis  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic  attacbmenS 
as  conceived  in  sucb  circumstances ;  and  tbo  description  is  so  true  to 
nature,  tbat  we  must  surely  be  indebted  for  it  to  some  early  recol- 
lection. "  You  were  little  when  I  first  saw  you.  You  were  with 
your  mother  gathering  fruit  in  our  orchard,  and  I  was  your  guide, 
I  was  just  entering  my  thirteenth  year,  and  just  able  to  reach  the 
boughs  from  the  ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  poet  of  the  last  century.  "  When  I 
used  to  measure  myself  with  my  goat,  and  my  goat  was  the  tallest, 
even  then  I  loved  Clori." 

P.  258,  L  1. 

Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear. 
I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  "  The  friends  of  my 
youth,   where   are   they  ?  " — And   an   echo   answered,   ''  Where   are 
they  ?  " — From  an  Arabic  MS. 

P.  200,  1.  15. 

Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  ! 
When  a   traveller,  who  was  surveying   the  ruins  of  Rome,  ex 
pressed  a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  its  ancient  grandeur,  Poua- 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  269 

sii),  who  attended  him,  stooped  down,  and  gathering  up  a  handful  of 
earth  shining  with  cnall  grains  of  porphyry  "  Take  this  home,"  said 
lie,  "  for  your  cabinet ;  and  say  boldl}',  Questct,  e  Roma  Anticay 

P.  261, 1.  16. 

The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep. 

Every  man  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to  some  spot  of 
earth,  by  the  thousand  small  threads  which  habit  and  association  are 
continually  stealing  over  him.  Of  these,  perhaps  one  of  the  strongest 
is  here  alluded  to. 

"When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to  emigrate, 
"  What !  "  they  replied,  "  shall  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our  fathers, 
Arise,  and  go  with  us  into  a  foreign  land  ?  " 

P.  261,  1.  23. 

So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 

See  Cook's  first  voyage,  book  i.  chap.  16. 

Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment  is  related  of 
his  fellow-countryman  Potaveri,  who  came  to  Europe  with  M.  de 
Bougainville. — See  Les  Jardins,  chaj^ti  ii. 

P.  262,  1.  1. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  <fec. 

Elle  se  leve  sur  son  lict,  et  se  met  a  contemplar  la  France  encore 
et  tant  qu'elle  peut. — Brantome. 

P.  262,  1.  9. 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
To  an  accidental  association  may  be  ascribed  some  of  the  noblest 
efforts  of  liuman  genius.  The  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire  first  conceived  his  design  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Capitol ;  and  to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  we  indebted  ;or  the 
Bard  of  Gray. 

P.  262,  1.  13. 

Hence  home-felt  pleasure,  &c. 
Who  can  enough  admire  the  affectionate  attachment  of  Plutarch 
who  thus  concludes  his  enumeration  of  the  advantages  of  a  (rroat  pi+t 


2Y0  NOTES    TO 

to  men  of  letters  ?     "  As  to  myself,  I   live  in  a  little  town  ,  and  I 
choose  to  live  there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less." — Vit.  Demosth. 

P.  262,  1.  15. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  Ac. 

He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspicion  was  good 
evidence.  Neither  the  interest  of  the  Doge,  his  father,  nor  tl)e  in- 
trepidity of  conscious  innocence,  which  he  exhibited  in  the  dungeon 
and  on  the  rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.  He  was  banished  tc 
the  island  of  Candia  for  life. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  distance  from 
home  he  could  not  live ;  and,  as  it  was  a  criminal  offence  to  solicit 
the  intercession  of  any  foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of  despair  he  addressed 
a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  wretch  whose 
perfidy,  he  knew,  would  occasion  his  being  remanded  a  prisoner  to 
Venice. 

P.  262,  1.  23 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart 
Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses  ,  whatever 
makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future,  predominate  over  the 
present,  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from 
me  and  from  my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us 
indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by 
wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.  That  man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose 
patriotism  would  not  gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or  whose 
piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  Zona. — Johnson. 

P.  262, 1.  28. 

And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,  in  Champagne. 

P.  262,  1.  29. 
'Twas  ever  thus.  Young  Ammon,  when  he  sought. 
Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  Hellespont,  was  in  the  twenty- 
second  year  of  his  age ;  and  with  what  feelings  must  the  scholar  of 
Aristotle  have  approached  the  ground  described  by  Homer  in  that 
poem  which  had  been  his  delight  from  his  childhood,  and  which  re- 
cords the  achievements  of  him  from  whom  he  claimed  his  descent  I 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  271 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  to  take  the  tillei 
from  Menoetius,  and  be  himself  the  steersman  during  the  passage, 
Tt  was  his  fancy  also  to  be  the  first  to  land,  and  to  land  full-armed. 
— Arrian,  i.  11. 

P.  263,  1.  6. 

As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb. 
Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  religious  enthusiast. 
Silius   Italicus  performed  annual   ceremonies   on   the   mountain   of 
Posilipo ;  and  it  was  there  that  Boccaccio,  quasi  da  un  divino  estrc 
inspirato,  resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 

P.  263,  1.  8. 

So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  time. 

When  Cicero  was  quaestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered  the  tomb  of 
Archimedes  by  its  mathematical  inscription. — Tusc.  QiiCBst.  v.  3. 

P.  283, 1.  22. 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep. 
The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely  exemplified  in 
the  faithful  Penelope,  when  she  shed  tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses. 
— Od.  xxi,  55. 

P.  264,  1.  7. 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild. 
The  celebrated  Kanz  des  Vachez ;  cet  air  si  cheri  des  Suissea 
qu'il  fut  defendu  sous  peine  de  mort  de  la  jouer  dans  leurs  troupes, 
parce  qui  I'faisoit  fondre  en  larmes,  deserter  ou  mourir  ceux  qui 
I'entendoient,  tant  il  excitoit  en  eux  I'ardent  desir  de  revoir  leur 
pays. — Bous  seau. 

The  maladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart.     Juvenal's 
little  cup-bearer 

Suspirat  longo  non  visam  tempore  matrem 
Et  casulam,  et  notos  tristis  desiderat  hoedos. 

And  the  Argive,  in  the  heat  cf  battle, 

])ulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos. 


272  NOTES    TO 

P.  264,  1.  12. 

Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm. 

This  emperor,  according  to  Suetonius,  constantly  passed  the  sum- 
mer in  a  small  villa  near  Reate,  where  he  was  born,  and  to  which  he 
would  never  add  any  embellishment ;  ne  quid  silicet  oculorum  con- 
suetudini  deperiret. — Suei.  in  Vit.  Vesp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  venerable  Pertinax, 
as  related  by  J.  Capitolinus.  Posteaquam  in  Liguriam  venit,  multis 
agris  coemptis,  tabernam,  paternam,  manenie  forma  priore,  iufiiiitis 
aedificiis  circundedit. — Hist.  August.  54. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he  built  hia 
magnificent  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family  chateau  at  Richelieu, 
he  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to  preserve  the  room  in  which  he  was 
born. — Mem.  de  Mile,  de  Morjfpensier,  i.  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  characteristic  of  a 
benevolent  mind  ;  and  a  long  acquaintance  with  the  world  cannot 
always  extinguish  it. 

"  To  a  friend,"  says  John  duke  of  Buckingham,  "  I  will  expose 
my  weakness  :  I  am  oftener  missing  a  pretty  gallery  in  the  old  house 
I  pulled  down,  than  pleased  with  a  saloon  which  I  built  in  its  stead, 
though  a  thousand  times  better  in  all  respects." — See  his  Letter  to 
the  h.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart ;  and  will  remind  the  reader  of 
that  good-humoured  remark  in  one  of  Pope's  letters — "  I  should 
hardly  care  to  have  an  old  post  pulled  up,  that  I  remembered,  ever 
since  I  was  a  child." 

The  author   of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this  subject  with  equal 
fancy  and  feeling,  in  the  story  of  Alibee,  Persan. 

P.  264,  1.  13. 

Why  great  Navarre,  &c. 
That  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry  the  Fourth,  of 
Prance,  made  an  excursion  from  his  camp,  during  the  long  siege  of 
Laon,  to  dine  at  a  house  in  the  forest  of  Folambray,  where  he  had 
often  been  regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk,  and  new  cheese  ; 
and  in  revisiting  which  he  promised  himself  great  pleasure. — Mem 
de  Sully. 


PLEASURES    OF  MEMORY.  273 

P.  264, 1.  16. 

When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind. 
Diocletian  retired   into  his  native  province,  and  there  amused 
himself   with  building,  planting,   and  gardening.       His  answer  to 
Maximian  is  deservedly  celebrated.     "  If,"  said  he,  "  I  could  show 
him  the   cabbages  which  I  have  planted  with  my  own  hands  at  Sa 
lona,  he  would  no  longer  solicit  me  to  return  to  a  throne." 

P.  264,  1.  20. 

Say,  when  contentious  Charles,  &c. 
When  the  emperor,  Charles  the  Fifth,  had  executed  his  memo- 
rable resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the  monastery  of  Juste,  he 
ptopped  a  few  days  at  Grhent  to  indulge  that  tender  and  pleasant 
melancholy,  which  arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  iu  the  decline  of 
life,  on  visiting  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the  objects  familiar  to 
him  in  his  early  youth. 

P.  264,  1.  21. 

To  muse  with  monks,  &c. 
Monjes  solitarios  del  glorioso  padre  San  Geronimo,  says  Saudova, 
In  a  corner  of  the  convent-garden  there  is  this  inscription.     En 

esta  santa  casa  de  S.  Geronimo  de  Juste  se  retiro  a  acabar  tu  vida 

Carlos  V.  Emperador,  &c. — Pont. 

P.  265, 1.  13. 

Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 

The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  groundwork  of  a  pleasing 

little   romance  entitled,  "  Lai  du  Palefroi  vair." — See  Fabliaux  du 

XlLSiede. 

Ariosto    likewise  introduces  it   in  a  passage  full  of  truth  and 

nature.     When  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in  the  forest, 
Va  mansueto  a  la  Donzella, 


Ch  in  Albracca  il  servia  giadi  sua  mano. — Orlando  Furioso,  i.  75. 

P.  266,  1.  12. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walls  attest. 
During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  reduced  to  the 
last  extremity,  aud  on  the  point  of  opening  its  gates  to  a  base  and 
18 


274      ^OTES    TO    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

barbarous  enemy,  a  design  was  formed  to  relieve  it ;  and  the  intelli- 
gence was  conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was  tied  under 
the  wing  of  a  pigeon. — Thuanus,  v.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of  Mutina,  a3  we 
are  informed  by  the  elder  Pliny. — Hist.  Nat.  x.  37. 

P.  266,  1.  23. 

Hark !  the  bee,  &c. 
This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of  her  eye,  cannot 
gee  many  inches  before  her. 


ANALYSIS   OF  PART  II. 

The  Memory  has  Litherto  acted  only  in  snLservience  to  the  sense?  and  so 
Tar  man  is  not  eminently  distinguished  from  other  animals  :  but,  with  respect  to 
man,  she  has  a  higher  province  ;  and  is  often  busily  employed,  when  excited  by  no 
exteriiai  '^anse  whatever.  She  preserves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art  and 
science,  history  and  philosophy.  She  colours  all  the  prospects  of  life  ;  for  we  can 
only  anticipate  the  future  by  concluding  what  is  possible  from  what  is  past.  On 
her  agency  depends  every  efifusion  of  the  Fancy,  who  with  the  boldest  effort  can 
only  compound  or  transpose,  augment  or  diminish  the  materials  which  fhe  has 
collected. 

^Iien  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided,  and  sorrow  has  softened 
into  melanchoiy,  she  amuses  with  a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspire* 
that  noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  consciousness  of  having  acted  well 
When  sleep  has  suspended  the  organs  of  sense  from  their  ofEce,  she  not  only  sup- 
plies the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  iu  their  combination.  And  even  in  madnes.' 
itself,  when  the  soul  is  resigned  over  to  the  tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagination, 
she  revives  past  perceptions,  and  awakens  that  train  of  thought  which  was  former- 
ly most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the  brighter  passages  of  life.  Events, 
the  most  distressing  in  their  immediate  consequences,  are  often  cherished  in  re- 
membrance with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical  impulse  to  the  passions, 
which  is  not  very  favourable  to  the  indulgence  of  this  feehng.  It  is  in  a  calm  and 
well-regulated  mind  that  the  Memory  is  most  perfect ;  and  solitude  is  her  best 
sphere  of  action.  With  this  sentiment  is  introduced  a  Tale  illustrative  of  her  in- 
fluence in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject  having  now  been  consi- 
dered, so  far  as  it  relates  to  man  and  the  animal  world,  the  Poem  concluEes  witi 
a  conjecture  that  superior  beings  are  blest  with  a  nobler  exercise  of  this  facal^. 


THE 

PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 


PART  II. 

Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  lip  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  tlie  fairy  haunts  of  long-lost  hoiu's, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  Howera 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  Thee  imparl- 
What  charms  in  Genius,  and  refines  in  Art : 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 

They  in    their    glorious   course   the   guides   of 
Youth, 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  Truth  ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  perceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought ; 
These  still  exist,  by  Thee  to  Fame  consign'd, 
Still  speak  and  act  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  thee  gay  Hope  her  airy  colouring  draws ; 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  27'< 

From  thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening 
ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play ; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prosj)ect  close, 
Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows ; 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 

The  beauteous  maid,  who  bids  the  world  adieu, 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review  ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face ; 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Burst  through  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent-cell. 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive  ; 
The  whisper'd  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong. 
Weave  the  light  dance,  and  swell  the  choral  song ; 
With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  serenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight-glade. 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh. 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  Time  has  calm'd  the  ruffled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  tUl  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
Is  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail, 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  everv  o-nle. 


^78  KOGERS'S 

Tell,  if  tliou  canst,  tlie  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fix'd  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair ! 
But  pause  not  then — beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  see  the  captive  bartered  as  a  slave ! 
Crush'd  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds. 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  resiguM, 
Lo !  Memory  bursts  the  twilis-ht  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul. 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control ; 
And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'Tis  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore ; 
Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew ; 
Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  Evening  blows, 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse. 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth. 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah  !  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate  i 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create ! 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day. 
Nor  wreck'd  by  storms,  nor  moulder'd  by  decay, 
A  woi'ld,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  sun-shine  blest, 
The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
Wlv^ii  ftinoT->  "hn.c!  lock'd  the  senses  in  her  chain. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  279 

Wlien  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resign'cl, 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind  ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows, 
From  her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  the  immortal  friend ! 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  round 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound. 
From  his  green  vale  and  shelter'd  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  foreign  skies  : 
Though  far  below  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away. 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rock'd  to  sleep, 
While  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep, 
With  Memory's  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees, 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub-voices  call. 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  Madness  dwell  ? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  Frenzy's  wing  restrain, 
And  mould  the  coinao'e  of  the  fever'd  brain  ? 


"O' 


Pass   but   that   grate,    which    scarce   a    gleam 
supplies. 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  lies ! 
He  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thouo^ht : 


280  KOGERS'S 

And  round,  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new ! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatch'd  the  wreath  of  Fame, 
The  sceptre  Poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  withering  scowl  she  wore  ; 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art ! 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start ! 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe ! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare, 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair"'" 

Awake,  arise  !  with  grateful  fervour  fraught. 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  through  Nature's  various  walks,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  portrays ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallow'd  guest, 
Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best ; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  Fancy's  golden  clime, 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  sublime, 
Or  wake  the  spirit  of  departed  Time. 
Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 
A  bloominoj  Eden  in  his  life  reviews  ! 
So  rich  the  culture,  though  so  small  the  space. 
Its  scanty  limits  he  forgets  to  trace. 
But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh ! 
The  weary  waste,  that  lengthen'd  as  he  ran, 
Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span ! 

Ah !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined  ? 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  281 

VVJien  age  has  quencli'd  the  eye,  and  closed  the  ear, 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Oft  will  she  rise — with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  lono^-loved  imao:e  vanish'd  from  her  view  ; 
Dart  through  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past. 
O'er  dusky  f  :>rms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  through  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  flies. 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries  ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose. 
Long  on  the  wood-moss  stretch'd  in  sweet  repose. 

JSTor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind. 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire  ; 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire, 
When,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun. 
He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds  were  done. 

Go,  with  old  Thames,  view  Chelsea's  glorious  pile ; 
And  ask  the  shatter'd  hero,  whence  his  smile  ? 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich — go, 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 

Kail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave  ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave. 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age, 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest's  rage ; 
Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valour's  various  day. 


282  ROGERS'S 

Time's  soinbrous  touclies  soon  correct  tlie  piecf, 
Mellow  eacli  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease  : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast    thou    through   Eden's    wild-wood     vales 
pursued 
Each  mountain-scene,  majestically  rude  ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  hfe, 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife  ; 
Nor  there  awhile,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  Peivibroke  rear'd  ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place, 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace? 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sigh'd. 
Thus,  through  the  gloom  of  Shenstoin^e's  fairy-grove, 
Maria's  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower, 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fell 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace, 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace  ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand. 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smilp 
The  s+raufyer  f^reets  each  native  of  his  isle; 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  283 

So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confessed, 
Stamp  bnt  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast  r 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  view'd, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity ! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know ; 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Of  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day, 
When  the  hush'd  grove  has  sung  its  parting  lay ; 
When  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car. 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star ; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell. 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath,  and  bushy  dell ; 
A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  shun  the  light, 
Stealing:  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  nisrht. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul, 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control. 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise. 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies  ! 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time, 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime; 
When  Nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscape  threw 
Her  richest  fragance,  and  her  brightest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  Salvator's  soul  adored ; 
The  rocky  pass  half-hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood ; 
jSIor  shunn'd  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread, 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led  ; 
Some  aucieut  cntnTnct's  rie>^erted  bed. 


2g4  ROGERS'S 

Higli  on  exulting  wing  the  heath-cock  rose, 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodore ; 
And  through  the  rifted  clifts,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  charm'd  his  dazzled  eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave, 
Through  morn's  gray  mist  its  melting  colours  gave ; 
And,  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brush'd  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Adventurer  flew; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore, 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Embowering  shrubs  with  verdure  veil'd  the  sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced   from   the   white   foam   of  some   shelter'd 
stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  toll'd, 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penn'd  his  fold ; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  play'd ; 
When,  hark!    a  voice   sung   sweetly  through  the 

shade. 
It  ceased — yet  still  in  Florio's  fancy  sung, 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead,  a  cool,  sequester'd  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  cross'd  the  pebbled  floor, 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  285 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude  ! 
In  this  secret  shadowy  cell 
Musing  Memory  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 
Far  from  the  busy  world  she  flies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  she  sits ;  from  youth  to  age^ 
Reviewing  Life's  eventfril  page ; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 

Florio  had  gain'd  a  rude  and  rocky  seat, 
When  lo,  the  Genius  of  this  still  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form — but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  softness  of  her  angel-face  ? 
Can  Virgil's  verse,  can  Raphael's  touch  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Those  tenderer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye, 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  mark'd  the  stranger  there ; 
Pier  pastoral  beauty,  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white-wing'd  agents  of  the  sky. 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy. 
Inform  congeniail  spirits  when  they  meet  ? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  their  natures  sweet ! 

Florio,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid, 
Till  through  a  vista's  moonlight-chequer'd  shade. 
Where  the  bat  cii^cled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed) 


ogg  ROGERS'S 

An  antique  mansion  burst  in  awful  state, 
A  ricli  vine  clustering  round  tlie  Gothic  gate, 
Nor  paused  he  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  dewy  green ; 
And,  slow  advancing,  hail'd  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  express'd. 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  Squire ; 
Age  had  not  quench'd  one  spark  of  manly  fire  ; 
But  giant  Gout  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  Eemembrance,  sweetly-soothing  Power! 
Wing'd  with  delight  Confinement's  lingering  hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear. 
He  scour'd  the  county  in  his  elbow-chair ; 
And,  with  view-halloo,  roused  the  dreaming  houud. 
That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined 
His  aared  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind : 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portray'd. 
The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  display'd, 
Usurp'd  the  canvass  of  the  crowded  hall. 
And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 
There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew  ! 
High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest-trophies  hung, 
And  their  fantastic  branches  widely  flung. 
How  would  he  dweU  on  the  vast  antlers  there  ! 
These  dash'd  the  wave,  those  fann'd  the  mountain 

air. 
All,  as  they  frown'd,  unwritten  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 


287 


But  why  the  tale  prolong  ? — His  only  child, 
His  darlino;  Julia  on  the  stranger  smiled. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sii'e  to  please, 
Her  gentle  gayety,  and  native  ease 
Had  won  his  soul ;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But  ah  !  few  days  had  pass'd,  ere  the  briafht  vision 
fled! 

When  Evenino;  tinsfed  the  lake's  ethereal  blue. 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw  ; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove : 
Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  taper'd  rite 
Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night : 
And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 
A  sacred  calm  through  the  brown  foliage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  through  the  silent  glade. 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  survey'd. 
High  hung  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined. 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  of  every  wind ; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rock'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave : 
The  eagle  rush'd  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

» 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimm'd  with  dewy  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  hor  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung ; 
When  lo,  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 
And  to  the  surge  consign'd  the  little  crew. 


288  ROGEES'S 

AH,  all  escaped — but  ere  tlie  lover  bore 

His  faint  and  faded  Julia  to  the  shore, 

Her  sense  had  fled ! — Exhausted  by  the  storm, 

A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form ; 

Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired : 

'T  was  life's  last  spark — it  flutter'd  and  expired ;' 

The  father  strew'd  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind 
Call'd  on  his  child— nor  ling-er'd  long-  behind ; 
And  Floeio  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave, 
With  many  an  evening-whisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  Florio  lived — and,  still  of  each  possess'd, 
The  father  cherish'd  and  the  maid  caress'd  ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove, 
With  Julia's  spirit  through  the  shadowy  grove: 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  plann'd, 
Kiss  every  flowret  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah  !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  lights  betray'd 
Half-viewless  forms  ;  still  listen'd  as  the  lireeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught, 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunn'd  the  blaze  of  dajj 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell, 
Murmur'd  of  Julia's  virtues  as  it  fell ; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  Florio's  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  the  enchantress  Memory  threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too ! 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  289 

But  is  her  magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  through  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow; 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere, 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here  : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew, 
Not  call'd  in  slow  succession  to  review ; 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day, 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey ! 

Each  scene  of  bhss  reveal'd,  since  chaos  fled, 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzhng  glories  spread ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glow'd, 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flow'd ; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divine, 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscover'd  shine  ; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  h\'ing  rays, 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 

There  thy   bright,  train,  immortal   Friendship 
soar; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more ! 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant  years. 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife, 
Smiles  at  the  httle  cares  and  ills  of  life ; 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers ; 
As  at  a  dream  that  charm'd  her  vacant  hours ! 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening- walk  unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green  ; 

19 


390  ROGERS'S 

To  hail  tlie  spot  where  once  their  friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  open'd  to  their  view ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well ! 

Oh  thon  !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care ; 
With  whom,  alas,  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  Avalks  of  happiness  below  ; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love. 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind, 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resign'd ; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguist-, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aim'd  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present. 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
1\  hen  thy  last  breath,  ere  JS^ature  sunk  to  rest, 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  express'd  ^, 
When  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hoj^e  and  triumph  shed ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave, 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave  ? 
The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemish'd  youth, 
The  stiU  insph^ing  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth ! 

Hail,  Memory,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumber'd  treasm'es  shine ! 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMOPwY.  39] 

Thouglit  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone  ; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away ! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest, 
"VYhere  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blesu 


N  O  T  £.  a 

■TO 

PLEASURES    OE    MEMORY 


PART  II. 


P.  276,  1.  16. 

These  still  exist,  &c. 

There  is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  an  Existence  is 
the  hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall  live  after  us.  It  is  in  re- 
serve for  every  man,  however  obscure ;  and  his  portion,  if  he  be  dili- 
gent, must  be  equal  to  his  desires.  For  in  whose  remembrance  can 
we  wish  to  hold  a  place,  but  such  as  know,  and  are  known  by  us  ? 
These  are  within  the  sphere  of  our  influence,  and  among  these  and 
their  descendants  we  may  live  for  evermore. 

It  is  a  state  of  rewards  and  punishments  ;  and,  like  that  revealed 
to  us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest  influence  on  our  lives.  The 
latter  excites  us  to  gain  the  favour  of  God,  the  former  to  gain  the 
love  and  esteem  of  wise  and  good  men ;  and  both  lead  to  the  same 
end ;  for,  in  framing  our  conceptions  of  the  Deity,  we  only  ascribe 
to  Him  exalted  degrees  of  Wisdom  and  Goodness. 

P.  280,  1.  7. 

Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art  I 

The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  wall,  in  Hogarth's 
view  of  Bedlam,  is  an  admirable  exemplification  pf  this  idea. — See 
the  Rake's  Pi-ogress,  plate  8. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  993 

P.  280,  1.  27. 

Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  ! 
The  following  stanzas  are  said  to  have  been  written  on  a  blank 
leaf  of  this  Poem.     They  present  so  affecting  a  reverse  of  the  picture, 
that  I  cannot  resist  the  opportunity  of  introducing  them  here. 

Pleasures  of  Memory  ! — oh  !  supremely  blest, 

Aud  justly  proud  beyond  a  Poet's  praise ; 
If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 
Contain,  indeed,  the  subject  of  thy  lays  ! 

iij  me  how  envied  ! — for  to  me. 

The  herald  still  of  misery. 

Memory  makes  her  influence  known 

By  sighs,  and  tears,  and  grief  alone ; 
I  greet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 
The  vulture's  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  funeral  song. 

She  tells  of  time  misf?pent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by  ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  crossed, 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish  yet  fear  to  die  ; 

For  what,  except  the  instinctive  fear 

Lest  she  survive,  detains  me  here, 

When  "  all  the  life  of  life"  is  fled  ?— 

What,  but  the  deep  inherent  dread. 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign, 
And  realize  the  hell  that  priests  and  beldames  feign  ? 


P.  282,  1.  5. 

Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued. 

On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  there  stands  % 
Bmall  pillar  with  this  inscription  : 

*'  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann  Countess 
Dowager  of  Pembroke,  &c.,  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting,  in 
this  place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess 
Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  2d  of  April,  1616  ;  in  memory 
whereof  she  hath  left  an  annuity  of  £4  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor 
of  the  parish  of  Brougham,  every  second  day  of  April  for  ever,  upon 
the  stone  table  placed  hard  by.     Laus  Deo  !  " 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and  rises  in  the 
wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 


294   :n"Otes  to  pleasures  of  memory. 

p.  282,  i.  17. 

O'er  bis  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sigh'd. 

"  I  -would  not  exchange  my  dead  son,"  said  he,  "  for  any  living 
son  in  Christendom." — Hume. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the  Leasowes  : 
"  Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari,  quam  tui  meminisse  ! ' 

P.  287, 1. 12. 

Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove. 
A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which  were  formerly 
the  ruins  of  a  religious  house. 

P.  287,  1.  29. 
When  lo  !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 
In   a  mountain-lake   the   agitations   are  often  violent    and  mo- 
mentary.    The  winds  blow  in  gusts  and  eddies ;  and  the  water  no 
sooner  swells,  than  it  subsides. — See  Bourn'' s  Hist,  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  289,  1.  3. 

To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere. 

The  several  degrees  of  angels  may  probably  have  larger  views 

and  some  of  them  be  endowed  with  capacities  able  to  retain  together, 

and  constantly   set  before  them,' as  in  one  picture,  all   their  pasi 

knowledge  at  once. — Locke. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

18  12. 

CHI   SE'    TU,    CHE    VIENI — ? 
DA    ME   STESSO    NOX    VEGXO. 

DANTE. 


PEEFACE. 

The  following  Poem  (or,  to  speak  more  properl}^,  what 
remains  of  it*)  has  here  and  there  a  h^rical  turn  of 
thought  and  expression.  It  is  sudden  in  its  transitions, 
and  full  of  historical  allusions  ;  leaving  much  to  be 
imagined  by  the  reader. 

The  subject  is  a  voyage  most  memorable  in  the  annals 
of  mankind.  Columbus  was  a  person  of  extraordinary 
virtue  and  piety,  acting  under  the  sense  of  a  Divine 
impulse ;  and  his  achievement  the  discovery  of  a  New 
World,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  shut  out  from  the 
light  of  Revelation,  and  given  up,  as  they  believed,  to 
the  dominion  of  malignant  spirits. 

Many  of  the  incidents  will  now  be  thought  extrav- 
agant ;  j^et  they  were  once  perhaps  received  with  some- 
thing more  than  indulgence.  It  was  an  age  of  miracles  ; 
and  who  can  say  that  among  the  venerable  legends  in 
the  library  of  the  Escurial,  or  the  more  authentic  records 
which  fill  the  great  chamber  in  the  Archivo  of  Simancus, 

*  The  Original  in  the  Castilian  language,  according  to  the  Inscription  that  fol- 
lows, was  found  among  other  MSS.  iu  an  old  religious  hou.se  near  Palos,  situated 
on  an  island  formed  by  the  river  Tin  to,  and  dedicated  to  our  Lady  of  La  Rabida. 
The  Writer  describes  himself  as  having  sailed  with  Columbus;  but  his  stylo  and 
manner  are  evidently  of  an  after-time. 


296  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUxMBUS. 

and  which  relate  entirely  to  the  deep  tragedy  of 
America,  there  are  no  volumes  that  mention  the  marvel- 
lous things  here  described?  Indeed  the  story,  as  already 
told  throughout  Europe,  admits  of  no  heightening.  Such 
was  the  religious  enthusiasm  of  the  early  writers,  that 
the  Author  had  only  to  transfuse  it  into  his  verse  ;  and 
he  appears  to  have  done  little  more  ;  though  some  of 
the  circumstances,  which  he  alludes  to  as  well-known, 
have  long  ceased  to  be  so.  By  using  the  language  of 
that  day,  he  has  called  up  Columbus  "in  the  habit  as 
he  lived  ; "  and  the  authorities,  such  as  exist,  are  care- 
fully given  by  the  Translator. 


INSCEIBED   ON  THE  ORIGINAL   MANUSCIEPT. 

Unclasp  me.  Stranger  ;  and  unfold. 
With  trembling  care  my  leaves  of  gold, 
Eich  in  gothic  portraiture — 
If  yet,  alas,  a  leaf  endure. 

In  Eabida's  monastic  fane 
I  cannot  ask,  and  ask  in  vain. 
The  language  of  Castile  I  speak ; 
Mid  many  an  Arab,  many  a  Greek, 
Old  in  the  davs  of  Charlemain  : 
When  minstrel-music  wandered  round. 
And  Science,  wakings  blessed  the  sound. 

No  earthly  thought  has  here  a  place, 
The  cowl  let  down  on  every  face  ; 
Yet  here,  in  consecrated  dust. 
Here  would  I  sleep,  if  sleep  I  must. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  297 

From  Genoa  when  Columbus  came, 
(At  once  her  glory  and  her  shame) 
'T  was  here  he  caught  the  holy  flame. 
'T  was  here  the  generous  vow  he  made  ; 
His  banners  on  the  altar  laid. 

Here  tempest-worn  and  desolate  * 
A  Pilot,  journeying  thro'  the  wild, 
Stopt  to  solicit  at  the  gate 
A  pittance  for  his  child. 
'T  was  here,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
He  stood  upon  the  threshold-stone. 
But  hope  was  his — a  faith  sublime, 
That  triumphs  over  place  and  time ; 
And  here,  his  mighty  labour  done. 
And  his  course  of  glory  run, 
Awhile  as  more  than  man  he  stood. 
So  large  the  debt  of  gratitude  ! 

One  hallowed  morn,  methought,  I  felt 
As  if  a  soul  within  me  dwelt! 
But  who  arose  and  gave  to  me 
The  sacred  trust  I  keep  for  thee, 

*  We  have  an  interesting  account  of  his  first  appearance  iu  Spain,  that  country 
whicli  was  so  soon  to  be  tlie  tlieatre  of  his  glory.  According  to  the  testimony  of 
Garcia  Fernandez,  the  physician  of  Palos,  a  sea-faring  man,  accompanied  by  a 
very  young  boy,  stopped  one  day  at  the  gate  of  tlie  convent  of  La  Rabida,  and 
asked  of  the  porter  a  little  bread  and  water  for  his  child.  While  they  were 
receiving  this  humble  refreshment,  the  Prior,  Juan  Perez,  happening  to  pass  by, 
was  struck  with  the  look  and  manner  of  the  stranger,  and  entering  into  conver- 
sation with  him,  soon  learnt  the  particulars  of  his  story.  The  stranger  was 
Columbus;  the  boy  was  his  son  Diego;  and,  but  for  this  accidental  interview, 
America  might  have  remained  long  undiscovered :  for  it  was  to  the  zeal  of  Juan 
Perez  that  he  was  finally  indebted  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  great  purpose. 
— See  Irving's  history  of  Columbus. 


298  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

And  in  his  cell  at  even-tide 
Knelt  before  the  cross  and  died — 
Inquire  not  now.     His  name  no  more 
Glimmers  on  the  chancel-floor, 
Near  the  lights  that  ever  shine 
Before  St.  Mary's  blessed  shrine. 

To  me  one  little  hour  devote, 
And  lay  thy  staff  and  scrip  beside  thee ; 
Read  in  the  temper  that  he  wrote, 
And  may  his  gentle  spirit  guide  thee ! 
My  leaves  forsake  me,  one  by  one  ; 
The  book-worm  thro'  and  thro'  has  gone. 
Oh  haste — unclasp  me,  and  unfold  ; 
The  tale  within  was  never  told ! 


PREFACE  TO   THE   SECOND  EDITION. 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  old  Spanish  Chroniclers  of 
the  sixteenth  century  that  may  be  compared  to  the 
freshness  of  water  at  the  fountain-head.  Their  sim- 
plicity, their  sensibility  to  the  strange  and  the  won- 
derful, their  very  weaknesses  give  an  infinite  value,  by 
giving  a  life  and  a  character  to  everything  they  touch  ; 
and  their  religion,  which  bursts  out  everywhere,  ad- 
dresses itself  to  the  imagination  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. If  they  err,  their  errors  are  not  their  own. 
They  think  and  feel  after  the  fashion  of  the  time  ;  and 
their  narratives  are  so  many  moving  pictures  of  the 
actions,  manners,  and  thoughts  of  their  contemporaries. 

What  they  had  to  communicate,  might  well  make 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  299 

them  eloquent ;  but,  inasmuch  as  relates  to  Columbus, 
the  Inspiration  went  no  farther.  No  Xational  Poem 
appeared  on  the  subject;  no  Camoens  did  honour  to 
his  G-enius  and  his  Virtues.  Yet  the  materials,  that 
have  descended  to  us,  are  surely  not  unpoetical  ;  and  a 
desire  to  avail  mvself  of  them,  to  convev  in  some 
instances  as  far  as  I  could,  in  others  as  far  as  I  dared, 
their  warmth  of  colouring  and  wildness  of  imagery,  led 
me  to  conceive  the  idea  of  a  Poem  written  not  lonsc 
after  his  death,  when  the  great  consequences  of  the 
Discovery  were  beginning  to  unfold  themselves,  but 
while  the  minds  of  men  were  still  clinging  to  the 
superstitions  of  their  fathers. 

The  Event  here  described  maybe  thought  too  recent 
for  the  Machinery;  but  T  found  them  together.*  A 
belief  in  the  agency  of  Evil  Spirits  prevailed  over 
both  hemispheres  ;  and  even  yet  seems  almost  necessarj^ 
to  enable  us  to  clear  up  the  darkness, 

And  justify  the  ways  of  Grod  to  Men. 

*  Perhaps  even  a.  contemporary  subject  should  not  be  rejected  as  such,  how- 
ever wild  and  extravagant  it  may  be,  if  the  manners  be  foreign  and  the  place  dis- 
tant— major  e  louginquo  reverentia.  L'eloiguement  dcs  pays,  says  Eacine, 
repare  en  quelque  sorte  la  trop  grande  proximite  des  temps ;  ear  le  peuple  ne  met 
gu^re  de  difference  entre  ce  qui  est,  si  j'ose  ainsi  parler,  a  mille  ans  de  lui,  et  ce 
qui  en  est  a  mille  lieuea. 


300  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Columbus,  having  wandered  from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  at  length  obtains  three 
ships  and  sets  sail  on  the  Atlantic.  The  compass  alters  from  its  ancient  direction; 
the  wind  becomes  constant  and  unremitting ;  night  and  day  he  advances,  till  he 
is  suddenly  stopped  in  his  course  by  a  mass  of  vegetation,  extending  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  and  assuming  the  appearance  of  a  country  overwhelmed  by  the  sea. 
Alarm  and  despondence  on  board.  He  resigns  himself  to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and 
proceeds  on  his  voyage. 

Meanwhile  the  deities  of  America  assemble  in  council ;  and  one  of  the  Zemi, 
the  gods  of  the  islanders,  announces  his  approach.  "  In  vain,"  says  he,  "  have  we 
guarded  the  Atlantic  for  ages.  A  mortal  has  baffled  our  power;  nor  will  our 
votaries  arm  against  him.  Yours  are  a  sterner  race.  Hence !  and,  while  we  have 
recourse  to  stratagem,  do  you  array  the  nations  round  your  altars,  and  prepare  for 
an  exterminating  war."  They  disperse  while  he  is  yet  speaking ;  and,  in  the  shape 
of  a  condor,  he  directs  his  flight  to  the  fleet.  His  journey  described.  He  arrives 
there.  A  panic.  A  mutiny.  Columbus  restores  order;  continues  on  his  voyage; 
and  lands  in  a  New  World.  Ceremonies  of  the  first  interview.  Rites  of  hospi- 
tality.    The  ghost  of  Cazziva. 

Two  months  pass  away,  and  an  angel,  appearing  in  a  dream  to  Columbus,  thus 
addresses  him  :  "Return  to  Europe;  thougli  your  Adversaries,  such  is  the  will  of 
Heaven,  shall  let  loose  the  hurricane  against  you.  A  little  while  shall  they  tri- 
umph ;  insinuating  themselves  into  the  hearts  of  your  followers,  and  making  the 
"World,  wliich  you  came  to  bless,  a  scene  of  blood  and  slaughter.  Yet  is  there 
cause  for  rejoicing.  Your  work  is  done.  The  cross  of  Christ  is  planted  here ;  and, 
in  due  time,  all  things  shall  be  made  perfect  I" 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  301 

CANTO  I. 

Klglit — Columbus  on  the  Atlantic — the  Variation  of  the  Compass,  dec. 

Say  who,  wliea  age  on  age  lias  rolled  away, 
And  still,  as  sunk  the  golden  Orb  of  day. 
The  seamen  watched  him,  while  he  lingered  here, 
With  many  a  wish  to  follow,  many  a  fear, 
And  gazed  and  gazed,  and  wondered  where  he  went, 
So  bright  his  path,  so  glorious  his  descent, 
Who  first  adventured — In  his  birth  obscure, 
Yet  born  to  build  a  Fame  that  should  endure, 
Who  the  great  secret  of  the  Deep  possessed, 
And  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  West, 
Fearless,  resolved,  with  every  sail  unfurled, 
Planted  his  standard  on  the  Unknown  World  ? 
Him,  by  the  Paynim  bard  descried  of  yore. 
And  ere  his  coming  sung  on  either  shore, 
Him,  ere  the  birth  of  Time  by  Heaven  designed 
To  lift  the  veil  that  covered  half  mankind, 

None  can  exalt 

Yet,  ere  I  die,  I  would  fulfil  my  vow  ; 
Praise  cannot  wound  his  generous  spirit  now. 

^  ^  ■Ti  ^t  ^  ^ 

'T  was   night.     The  Moon,  o'er  the  wide  wave, 
disclosed 
Her  awful  face  ;  and  Nature's  self  reposed ; 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone — but  to  no  mortal  eye, 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy,  on  the  dizzy  mast. 
Half  breathed  his  orisons  !     Alone  unchanged, 
Calral}',  beneath,  the  great  Commander  ranged, 


302  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Thoughtful  not  sad  ;  and,  as  the  planet  grew, 
His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue. 
Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 
"Thee  hath  it  pleased — Thy  will  be  done !"  he  said, 
Then  sought  his  cabin  ;  and,  there  garments  spread, 
Around  him  lay  the  sleeping  as  the  dead, 
When,  by  his  lamp  to  that  mysterious  Guide, 
On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 
That  Oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given. 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  .wisdom  is  from  heaven, 
Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 
And,  as  with  G-od's  own  fmger,  points  the  wa}^ 
He   turned  ;   but  what  strange  thoughts  perplexed 

his  soul. 
When,  lo,  no  more  attracted  to  the  Pole, 
The  compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 
Fluttered  and  fixed,  fluttered  and  fixed  again! 
At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  Hand  imprest. 
It  sought  with  trembling  energy  the  West  !* 
"  Ah  no  !  "  he  cried,  and  calmed  his  anxious  brow, 
"  111,  nor  the  signs  of  ill,  'tis  thine  to  show ; 
Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  I  wished  to  go  !  " 

Columbus  erred  not.     In  that  awful  hour, 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  G-od-like  power, 
And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  sun,f 
An  Angel  came  !     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done! 
He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind, 
Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind, 
But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 
Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 

*  Herrcra,  dec.  I.  lib.  i.  c.  9.  f  Rev.  xix.  17. 


THE  VOYAGE  OP  COLUMBUS.         303 

From  the  bright  East.    Tides  duly  ebbed  and  flowed  ; 
Stars  rose  and  set ;  and  new  horizons  glowed  ; 
Yet  still  it  blew  !     As  with  primeval  sway 
Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day, 
Moveonthe  waters! — All,  resigned  to  Fate, 
Folded  their  arras  and  sate  ;  and  seemed  to  wait 
Some  sudden  change  ;  and  sought,  in  chill  suspense, 
New  spheres  of  being,  and  new  modes  of  sense  ; 
As  men  departing,  though  not  doomed  to  die, 
And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 


CANTO   II. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

"  What  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there, 
As  of  a  former  world  ?     Is  it  not  where, 
Atlantic  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  displayed ; 
Sunk  into  darkness  with  the  realms  they  swayed, 
When  towers  and  temples,  thro'  the  closing  wave, 
A  glimmering  ray  of  ancient  splendour  gave — 
And  we  shall  rest  with  them. — Or  are  we  thrown" 
(Each  gazed  on  each,  and  all  exclaimed  as  one) 
"  AVhere  things  familiar  cease  and  strange  begin, 
All  progress  barred  to  those  without,  within  ? 
— Soon  is  the  doubt  resolved.     Arise,  behold — 
We  stop  to  stir  no  more  .  .  .  nor  will  the  tale  be  told. 


■n 


The  pilot  smote  his  breast ;  the  watchman  cried 
"Land!"  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died. 
At  once  the  fury  of  the  prow  was  quelled  ; 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld) 


304 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 


Shrieks,  not  of  men,  were  mingling  in  the  blast ; 
And  armed  shapes  of  god-like  stature  passed ! 
Slowly  along  the  evening-sky  they  went, 
As  on  the  edge  of  some  vast  battlement ; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  spear  and  gonfalon, 

Streaming  a  baleful  light  that  was  not  of  the  sun  ! 

I 

Long  from  the  stern  the  great  Adventurer  gazed 
With  awe  not  fear  ;  then  high  his  hands  he  raised. 
"  Thou  All-supreme  ...  in  goodness  as  in  power. 
Who,  from  his  birth  to  this  eventful  hour. 
Hast  led  thy  servant  over  land  and  sea,* 
Confessing  Thee  in  all,  and  all  in  Thee, 
Oh  still" — He  spoke,  and  lo,  the  charm  accurst 
Fled  whence  it  came,  and  the  broad  barrier  burst ! 
A  vain  illusion !  (such  as  mocks  the  eyes 
Of  fearful  men,  when  mountains  round  them  rise 
From  less  than  nothing)  nothing  now  beheld. 
But  scattered  sedge — repelling,  and  repelled  ! 

And  once  again  that  valiant  company 
Right  onward  came,  ploughing  the  Unknown  Sea. 
Already  borne  beyond  the  range  of  thought. 
With  Light  divine,  with  Truth  immortal  fraught, 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep, 
Swift  as  the  winds  along  the  waters  sweep, 
'Mid  the  mute  nations  of  the  purple  deep. 
— And  now  the  sound  of  harpy-wings  they  hear  ; 
Now  less  and  less,  as  vanishing  in  fear  ! 
And  see,  the  heavens  bow  down,  the  waters  rise. 
And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies, 

*  They  may  give  me  what  name  they  please.     I  am  servant  of  Him,  &c. 
— Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  2. 


THE    TOY  AGE    OP    COLUMBUS.  305 

That  stand — and  still,  when  they  proceed,  retire. 
As  in  the  Desert  burned  the  sacred  fire  ; 
Moving  in  silent  majest}^  till  Night 
Descends,  and  shuts  the  vision  from  their  sight. 


CANTO  in. 

An  Assembly  of  Evil  Spirits. 

Tho'  changed  my  cloth  of  gold  for  amice  grey — 
In  my  spring-time,  when  every  month  was  May, 
With  hawk  and  hound  I  coursed  away  the  hour, 
Or  sung  my  roundelay  in  lady's  bower. 
And  tho'  my  world  be  now  a  narrow  cell, 
(Renounced  for  ever  all  I  loved  so  well) 
Tho'  now  my  head  be  bald,  my  feet  be  bare, 
And  scarce  my  knees  sustain  my  book  of  prayer, 
Oh  I  was  there,  one  of  that  gallant  crew. 
And  saw — and  wondered  whence  his  Power  He 

drew, 
Yet  little  thought,  tho'  by  his  side  I  stood, 
Of  his  great  Foes  in  earth  and  air  and  flood. 
Then  uninstructed. — But  my  sand  is  run, 
And  the  Night  coming  .  .  .  and  my  Task  not  done ! 

'T  was  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  cave 
Of  Andes,  echoing  to  the  Southern  wave, 
'Mid  pillars  of  Basalt,  the  work  of  fire. 
That,  giant-like,  to  upper  day  aspire, 
'T  was  there  that  now,  as  wont  in  heaven  to  shine, 
Forms  of  angelic  mould  and  grace  divine 
Assembled.     All,  exiled  the  realms  of  rest, 
In  vain  the  sadness  of  their  souls  suppressed ; 


306 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 


Yet  of  their  glory  many  a  scattered  ray 
Shot  thro'  the  gathering  shadows  of  decay. 
Each  moved  a  God  ;  and  all,  as  Gods,  possessed 
One  half  the  globe  ;  from  pole  to  pole  confessed ! 

Oh  could  I  now — but  how  in  mortal  verse — 
Their  numbers,  their  heroic  deeds  rehearse  ! 
These  in  dim  shrines  and  barbarous  symbols  reign, 
Where  Plata  and  Maraornon  meet  the  Main. 
Those  the  wild  hunter  worships  as  he  roves, 
In  the  green  shade  of  Chili's  fragrant  groves  ; 
Or  warrior  tribes  with  rites  of  blood  implore, 
Whose  night-fires  gleam  along  the  sullen  shore 
Of  Huron  or  Ontario,  inland  seas, 
What  time  the  song  of  death  is  in  the  breeze ! 

'T  was  now  in  dismal  pomp  and  order  due. 
While  the  vast  concave  flashed  with  lightnings  blue, 
On  shining  pavements  of  metallic  ore. 
That  many  an  age  the  fusing  sulphur  bore. 
They  held  high  council.     All  was  silence  round, 
When,  with  a  voice  most  sweet  yet  most  profound, 
A  sovereign  Spirit  burst  the  gates  of  night, 
And  from  his  wings  of  gold,  shook  drops  of  liquid 

light ! 
M,erion,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep  ! 
Chief  of  the  Zemi,  whom  the  Isles  obeyed. 
By  Ocean  severed  from  a  world  of  shade. 

I. 

"Prepare,  again  prepare," 
Thus  o'er  the  soul  the  thrilling  accents  came, 
"Thrones  to  resign  for  lakes  of  living  flame, 

Aiul  triumph  for  despair. 


THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS. 


307 


He,  on  whose  call  afflicting  thunders  wait, 

Has  willed  it ;  and  his  will  is  fiite  ! 
In  vain  the  legions,  emulous  to  save, 

Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main  ; 
Turned  each  presumptuous  prow  that  broke  the  wave, 

And  dashed  it  on  its  shores  again. 
All  is  fulfilled!  Behold  iu  close  array. 
What  mighty  banners  stream  in  the  bright  track  of 

day! 

n. 

*'  No  voice  as  erst  shall  in  the  desert  rise  ; 

Nor  ancient,  dread  solemnities 

With  scorn  of  death  the  trembling  tribes  inspire. 

Wreaths  for  the  Conqueror's  brow  the  victims  bind ! 

Yet,  tho'  we  fled  yon  firmament  of  fire, 

Still  shall  we  fly,  all  hope  of  rule  resigned?" 

•5f  -St  *  *  *  * 

*  ■Sfr  *  *  *  -Sf 

He  spoke  ;  and  all  was  silence,  all  was  night! 
Each  had  already  winged  his  formidable  flight. 

CANTO   IV. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

"  Ah,  why  look  back,  tho'  all  is  left  behind  ? 
No  sounds  of  life  are  stirring  in  the  wind. — 
And  you,  ye  birds,  winging  your  passage  home, 
How  blest  we  are  ! — We  know  not  where  we  roam. 
We  go,"  they  cried,  "go  to  return  no  more ; 
Nor  ours,  alas,  the  transport  to  explore 
A  human  footstep  on  a  desert  shore !" 


308  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

— Still,  as  beyond  this  mortal  life  impelled 
By  some  mj^sterious  energ}^,  He  held 
His  everlasting  course.     Still  self-possessed, 
High  on  the  deck  He  stood,  disdaining  rest ; 
(His  amber  chain  the  only  badge  he  bore, 
His  mantle  blue  such  as  his  fathers  wore) 
Fathomed,  with  searching  hand,  the  dark  profound, 
And  scattered  hope  and  glad  assurance  round  ; 
Tho',  like  some  strange  portentous  dream,  the  Past 
Still  hovered,  and  the  cloudless  skv  o'ercast. 

At  dav-break  mi2,ht  the  Caravels*  be  seen, 
Chasing  their  shadows  o'er  the  deep  serene  ; 
Their  burnished  prows  lashed  by  the  sparkling  tide, 
Their  green-cross  standards  waving  far  and  wide. 
And  now  once  more  to  better  thoudits  inclined, 
The  sea-man,  mounting,  clamoured  in  the  wind. 
The  soldier  told  his  tales  of  love  and  war  ; 
The  courtier  sung — sung  to  his  gay  guitar. 
Round,  at  Primero,  sate  a  whiskered  band  ; 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land ! 
Leon,  Montalvan,  (serving  side  by  side ; 
Two  with  one  soul — and,  as  they  lived,  they  died) 
Yasco  the  brave,  thrice  found  among  the  slain, 
Thrice,  and  how  soon,  up  and  in  arms  again, 
As  soon  to  wish  he  had  been  sought  in  vain  ; 
Chained  down  in  Fez,  beneath  the  bitter  thong, 
To  the  hard  bench  and  heavy  oar  so  long! 
Albert  of  Florence,  who,  at  twilight-time. 
In  my  rapt  ear  poured  Dante's  tragic  rhyme. 


*  Light  vessels,  formerly  used  by  the  Simniards  ;iud  Portuguese, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 


309 


Screened  by  the  sail  as  near  the  mast  we  lay, 
Oar  nights  illumined  by  the  ocean-spray  ; 
And  Manfred,  who  espoused  with  jewelled  ring 
Youno;  Isabel,  then  left  her  sorrowins; : 
Lerma  'the  generous,'  Avila  'the  proud  ;' 
Velasquez,  Garcia,  thro'  the  echoing  crowd 
Traced  by  their  mirth — from  Ebro's  classic  shore, 
From  golden  Tajo,  to  return  no  more  ! 


CANTO  V. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

* 

* 

*                 % 

* 

* 

* 

* 

•«■  •              * 

* 

* 

Yet  who  but  He  undaunted  could  explore 
A  world  of  waves,  a  sea  without  a  shore, 
Trackless  and  vast  and  wild  as  that  revealed 
When  round  the  Ark  the  birds  of  tempest  wheeled  ; 
When  all  was  still  in  the  destroying  hour — 
No  sign  of  man !  no  vestige  of  his  power ! 
One  at  the  stern  before  the  hour-glass  stood. 
As  't  were  to  count  the  sands  ;  one  o'er  the  flood 
Gazed  for  St.  Elmo  f  while  another  cried 
"  Once  more  good  morrow  !  "  and  sate  down  and 

sighed. 
Day,  when  it  came,  came  only  with  its  light. 
Though  long  invoked,  'twas  sadder  thau  the  night! 
Look  where  He  would,  for  ever  as  He  turned, 
He  met  the  eye  of  one  that  inly  mourned. 

Then  sunk  his  generous  spirit,  and  He  wept. 
The  friend,  the  father  rose ;  the  hero  slept. 

*  A  luminous  appearance  of  good  omen. 


310         THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

Pales,  thy  port,  with  many  a  pang  resigned, 
Filled  with  its  busy  scenes  his  lonely  mind ; 
The  solemn  march,  the  vows  in  concert  given, 
The  bended  knees  and  lifted  hands  to  heaven, 
The  incensed  rites  and  choral  harmonies, 
The  Guardian's  blessings  mingled  with  his  sighs  ; 
While  his  dear  boys — ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung, 
And  long  at  parting  to  his  garments  clung.* 

Oft  in  the  silent  night-watch  doubt  and  fear 
Broke  in  uncertain  murmurs  on  his  ear. 
Oft  the  stern  Catalan,  at  noon  of  day, 
Muttered  dark  threats,  and  lingered  to  obey  ; 
Tho'  that  brave  Youth — he,  whom  his  courser  bore 
Right  thro'  the  midst,  when,  fetlock-deep  in  gore, 
The  great  Gronzalo  battled  with  the  Moor. 
(What  time  the  Alhambra  shook — soon  to  unfold 
Its  sacred  courts,  and  fountains  yet  untold. 
Its  holy  texts  and  arabesques  of  gold) 
Tho'  Roldan,  sleep  and  death  to  him  alike, 
Grasped  his  good  sword  and  half  unsheathed  to  strike. 
"  Oh  born  to  wander  with  your  flocks,"  he  cried, 
"  And  bask  and  dream  along  the  mountain-side  ; 
To  urge  your  mules,  tinkling  from  hill  to  hill ; 
Or  at  the  vintage-feast  to  drink  your  fill. 
And  strike  your  castanets,  with  gips3^-maid 
Dancing  Fandangos  in  the  chestnut  shade — 
Come  on,"  he  cried,  and  threw  his  glove  in  scorn, 
"  Not  this  your  wonted  pledge,  the  brimming  horn. 

*  His  public  procession  to  the  convent  of  La  Rabida  on  the  day  before  he  set 
sail.  It  Avas  there  that  his  sons  had  received  their  education;  and  ho  himself 
appears  to  have  passed  some  time  tlicro,  the  venerable  Guardian,  Juan  Perez  de 
Marchena,  being  his  zealous  and  affectionate  friend. — The  ceremonies  of  his  de- 
parture and  return  are  represented  in  many  of  the  fresco-paintings  in  the  palaces 
of  Genoa. 


THE  YOTAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.         311 

"Valiant  in  peace  !     Adventurous  at  home ! 
Oh,  had  ye  vowed  with  pilgrim-staff  to  roam ; 
Or  with  banditti  sought  the  sheltering  wood, 
Where  mouldering  crosses  mark  the  scene  of  blood — " 
He  said,  he  drew  ;  then,  at  his  Master's  frown, 
Sullenly  sheathed,  plunging  the  weapon  down. 


» 

* 

*              * 

* 

* 

* 

* 

CANTO   VI. 

* 

* 

The  Flight  of  an  Angel  of  Darkness. 

War  and  the  Glreat  in  War  let  others  sing. 
Havoc  and  spoil,  and  tears  and  triumphing ; 
The  morning-march  that  flashes  to  the  sun, 
The  feast  of  vultures  when  the  dav  is  done  ; 
And  the  strange  tale  of  many  slain  for  one ! 
I  sing  a  Man,  amid  his  sufferings  here. 
Who  watched  and  served  in  humbleness  and  fear  ; 
G-entle  to  others,  to  himself  severe. 

Still  unsubdued  by  Danger's  varying  form, 
Still,  as  unconscious  of  the  coming  storm, 
He  looked  elate  ;  and,  with  his  wonted  smile. 
On  the  great  Ordnance  leaning,  would  beguile 
The  hour  with  talk.     His  beard,  his  mien  sublime, 
Shadowed  by  Age — by  Age  before  the  time,* 
From  many  a  sorrow  borne  in  many  a  clime, 
Moved  every  heart.     And  now  in  open  skies 
Stars  yet  unnamed  of  purer  radiance  rise ! 
Stars,  milder  suns,  that  love  a  shade  to  cast. 
And  on  the  bright  wave  fling  the  trembling  mast ! 

*  Hist.  c.  3. 


312  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Another  firmament !  the  orbs  that  roll, 
Singly  or  clustering,  round  the  Southern  pole ! 
Not  yet  the  four  that  glorify  the  Night — 
Ah,  how  forget  when  to  my  ravished  sight, 
The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlastino-  lio-ht ! 

****** 

'T  was  the  mid  hour,  when  He,  whose  accents 
dread 
Still  wandered  thro'  the  regions  of  the  dead, 
(Merion,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep,) 
To  elude  the  seraph-guard  that  watched  for  man, 
And  mar,  as  erst,  the  Eternal's  perfect  plan, 
Rose  like  the  Condor,  and,  at  towering  height, 
In  pomp  of  plumage  sailed,  deepening  the  shades 

of  night. 
Roc  of  the  West!   to  him  all  empire  given! 
Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven  ; 
His  flight  a  whirlwind,  and,  when  heard  afar, 
Like  thunder,  or  the  distant  din  of  war ! 

Mountains  and  seas  fled  backward  as  he  passed 
O'er  the  great  globe,  by  not  a  cloud  o'ercast 
From  the  Antarctic,  from  the  Land  of  Fire* 
To  where  Alasca's  wintry  wilds  retire  ; 
From  mines  of  gold,  and  giant-sons  of  earth. 
To  grots  of  ice,  and  tribes  of  pigmy  birth 
Who  freeze  alive,  nor,  dead,  in  dust  repose. 
High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snows. 

****** 

*  Tierra  del  Fuego. 


THE    VOYA.GE    OF    COLUMBUS.  313 

Now  'mid  angelic  multitudes  he  flies, 
Tlmt  hourly  come  with  blessings  from  the  skies  ; 
Wings  the  blue  element,  and,  borne  sublime, 
E^^es  the  set  sun,  gilding  each  distant  clime  ; 
Then,  like  a  meteor,  shooting  to  the  main, 
Melts  into  pure  intelligence  again. 


CANTO  vn. 

A  Mutiny  Excited. 

What     tlio'    Despondence     reigned,     and     wild 

Affright- 
Stretched  in  the  midst,  and  thro'  that  dismal  night 
By  his  white  plume  revealed  and  buskins  white, 
Slept  Roldan.     When  he  closed  his  gay  career, 
Hope  fled  for  ever,  and  with  Hope  fled  Fear. 
Blest  with  each  gift  indulgent  Fortune  sends, 
Birth  and  its  rights,  wealth  and  its  train  of  friends, 
Star-like  he  shone  !     Now  beggared  and  alone, 
Danger  he  wooed,  and  claimed  her  for  his  own. 

O'er  him  a  Yampire  his  dark  wings  displayed. 
'T  was  Merion's  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade. 
He  came,  and,  couched  on  Eoldan's  ample  breast. 
Each  secret  pore  of  breathing  life  possessed, 
Fanning  the  sleep  that  seemed  his  final  rest ; 
Then,  inly  gliding  like  a  subtle  flame, 
Thrice,  with  a  cry  that  thrilled  the  mortal  frame, 
Called  on  the  Spirit  within.     Disdaining  flight, 
Calmly  she  rose,  collecting  all  her  might.* 

* — magnum  si  pectore  possit 
Excussisse  deum. 


314  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Dire  was  the  dark  encounter !     Long  unquelled, 
Her  sacred  seat,  sovereign  and  pure,  she  held. 
At  length  the  great  Foe  binds  her  for  his  prize, 
And  awful,  as  in  death,  the  body  lies! 

Not  long  to  slumber!     In  an  evil  hour 
Informed  and  lifted  by  the  unknown  Power, 
It  starts,  it  speaks !  "  We  live,  we  breathe  no  morel 
The  fatal  wind  blows  on  the  dreary  shore  ! 
On  yonder  cliffs  beckoning  their  fellow-prey, 
The  spectres  stalk,  and  murmur  at  delay  !  * 
— Yet  if  thou  canst  (not  for  myself  I  plead ! 
Mine  but  to  follow  where  't  is  thine  to  lead) 
Oh  turn  and  save !     To  thee  with  streaming  eyes, 
To  thee  each  widow  kneels,  each  orphan  cries ! 
Who  now,  condemned  the  lingering  hours  to  tell, 
Think  and  but  think  of  those  they  loved  so  well!" 

All  melt  in  tears !  but  what  can  tears  avail  ? 
These  climb  the  mast,  and  shift  the  swelling  sail. 
These  snatch  the  helm  5  and  round  me  now  I  hear 
Smiting  of  hands,  out-cries  of  grief  and  fear,t 
(That  in  the  aisles  at  midnight  haunt  me  still, 
Turning  my  lonely  thoughts  from  good  to  ill) 
"Were  there  no  graves — none  in  our  land,*'  they 

crv, 
"That  thou  has  brought  us  on  the  deep  to  die?" 

Silent  with  sorrow,  long  within  his  cloak 
His  face  he  muffled — then  the  Hero  spoke. 
"  Generous  and  brave!  when  God  himself  is  here, 
Why  shake  at  shadows  in  your  mid  career? 

*  Euripides  in  Alcest.  v.  255. 
f  Voci  alte  e  fioche,  e  suon  di  man  con  elle. — Dante. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.         315 

He  can  suspend  the  laws  himself  designed, 
He  walks  the  waters  and  the  winged  wind ; 
Himself  your  guide!  and  yours  the  high  behest, 
To  lift  your  voice,  and  bid  a  world  be  blest  I 
And  can  you  shrink  ?  to  you,  to  you  consigned 
The  glorious  privilege  to  serve  mankind ! 
Oh  had  I  perished,  when  my  failing  frame 
Clung  to  the  shattered  oar  'mid  wrecks  of  flame ! 
— Was  it  for  this  I  lingered  life  away! 
The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey ; 
Bowed  down  my  mind,  the  gift  His  bounty  gave, 
At  courts  a  suitor,  and  to  slaves  a  slave  ? 
— Yet  in  His  name  whom  only  we  should  fear, 
('T  is  all,  all  I  shall  ask,  or  j^ou  shall  hear). 
Grant  but  three  days." — He  spoke  not  uninspired  ; 
And  each  in  silence  to  his  watch  retired. 

At  length  among  us  came  an  unknown  Yoice ! 
"Gro,  if  ye  will;  and,  if  ye  can,  rejoice. 
Go,  with  unbidden  guests  the  banquet  share  ; 
In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there." 

CANTO  vm. 

Land  Discovered. 

Twice  in  the  zenith  blazed  the  orb  of  light ; 

No  shade,  all  sun,  insufferably  bright! 

Then  the  long  line  found  rest — in  coral  groves 

Silent  and  dark,  where  tlie  sea-lion  roves : — 

And  all  on  deck,  kindling  to  life  again, 

Sent  forth  Ihcir  anxious  spirits  o'er  the  main. 

"Oh  whence,  as  wafted  from  Elysium,  whence 
These  perfumes,  strangers  to  the  raptured  sense  ? 


316         THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

These  boughs  of  gold,  and  fruits  of  heavenly  hue, 
Tinging  with  vermeil  light  the  billows  blue  ? 
And  (thrice,  thrice  blessed  is  the  eye  that  spied, 
The  hand  that  snatched  it  sparkling  in  the  tide) 
Whose  cunning  carved  this  vegetable  bowl,* 
Svmbol  of  social  rites,  and  intercourse- of  soul?" 
Such  to  their  grateful  ear  the  gush  of  springs, 
Who  course  the  ostrich,  as  away  she  wings  ; 
Sons  of  the  desert!  who  delight  to  dwell 
'Mid  kneeling  camels  round  the  sacred  well ; 
Who,  ere  the  terrors  of  his  pomp  be  passed, 
Fall  to  the  demon  in  the  redd'ning  blast.f 

*  -Jt  *  *  *  -Sf- 

The  sails  were  furled ;  with  many  a  melting 
close, 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening-anthem  rose. 
Rose  to  the  Virgin.     'T  was  the  hour  of  day, 
When  setting  suns  o'er  summer-seas  display 
A  path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes,  and  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  human  voices  on  the  silent  air, 
Went  o'er  the  waves  in  songs  of  gladness  there  ! 

Chosen  of  men !     'T  was  thine,  at  noon  of  night, 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light : 
(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul  and  makes  the  darkness  day !) 
"Pedro!  Rodrigo!  there,  methought,  it  shone! 
There — in  the  west !  and  now,  alas,  't  is  gone  ! — 
'T  was  all  a  dream !  we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain ! 
— But  mark  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again ! 


*  Ex  ligno  lucido  confectum,  et  arte  mira  laboratum.     P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  5. 

\  Tlie  Simoom. 


THE    YOTAGE    OP    COLUMBUS.  317 

It  moves  ! — what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  instincts,  passions,  say  how  like  our  own? 
Oh!  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown?" 


* 

* 

*             * 

* 

* 

* 

* 

*              * 

¥: 

« 

• 

CANTO   IX. 

The  New   World. 

Long  on  the  wave  the  morning  mists  reposed. 
Then  broke — and,  melting  into  light,  disclosed 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods  ; 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran. 
And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  Man  ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies? 
"  Grlory  to  God  !  "  unnumbered  voices  sung, 
"Glory  to  God  !  "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 
Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  morn. 
And  to  the  Shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there  !  Nymphs  of  romance, 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep. 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"Come  and  behold  the  children  of  the  Sun!  " 


318  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Wheu  hark,  a  signal  shot!     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 
They  saw,  they  heard  ;  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
Checked  their  light  footsteps — statue-like  they  stood, 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood ! 
At  length  the  spell  dissolves  !     The  warrior's 
lance 
Rino's  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state ! 
Still  where  it  moves  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold. 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold  ; 
These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  the  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home, 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'T  is  here  :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight ; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose, 
That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows  ! 

CANTO    X. 

Cora — Luxuriant   Vegetation — the  Humming-bird — the  Fountain  of  Youth. 
-X-  *-»***  , 

Then  Cora  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race, 
And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face ; 
Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast, 
And  now  with  playful  step  the  Mirror  passed, 
Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last ! 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.         319 

And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before  ; 

The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and  perplexed  the 

more! 
And  look'd  and  laugh'd,   and  blush'd  with  quick 

surprise  ! 
Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes ! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view ! 
And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noon-tide,  on  the  silent  sea. 
Before  her  lies  !     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  there, 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air! — 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame. 
And  say— that  murmur — was  it  not  his  name  ? 
She  turns,  and  thinks  ;  and,  lost  in  wild  amazs, 
Grazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze ! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  Alonso,  now  excite 
As  in  Yalencia,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
Francisca,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew, 
So  soon  to  love,  and  to  be  wretched  too! 
Hers  thro'  a  convent-gate  to  send  her  last  adieu. 
— Yet  who  now  comes  uncalled  ;  and  round  and  round, 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  the  sound  ; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not — on  enchanted  ground? 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  flowers  she  culled  to  wear 
When  he,  who  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there ; 
And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide ! 
Ah,  who  but  Cora? — till  inspired,  possessed. 
At  once  she  springs,  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast ! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met!  by  sacred  instinct  Friends! 


320  THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS. 

Thro'  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 
Thro'  plaintain-walks  where  not  a  suii-beam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty ; 
Ceiba,  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time ! 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks!  there,  quivering, 

rise 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening  skies ! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,  the  fairy  king  of  flowers 
Eeigns  there,  and  revels  thro'  the  fragrant  hours  ; 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy,  and  song  divine, 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 

'T  was  he  that  sung,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks 
truth, 
"  Come  !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth! 
1  quaff'  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise. 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  !  " 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hoiir„ 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower ! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold! 

CANTO  XI. 

Evening — a  Banquet — the  Ghost  of  Oazziva. 

The  tamarind  closed  her  leaves  ;  the  marmoset 
Dreamed  on  his  bough,  and  played  the  mimic  yet 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew. 
And  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew  ; 
When  many  a  fire-fl}^,  shooting  thro'  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 


THE  YOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.         321 

Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with 

flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers.* 

Their  odorous  lamps  adorned  the  festal  rite, 
And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 
There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  G-uest, 
Whose  steadfast  looks  a  secret  dread  impressed ; 
Not  there  forgot  the  sacred  fruit  that  fed 
At  nightly  feasts  the  Spirits  of  the  Dead. 
Mingling  in  scenes  that  mirth  to  mortals  give, 
But  by  their  sadness  known  from  those  that  live. 

There  met,  as  erst,  within  the  wonted  grove. 
Unmarried  girls  and  j^ouths  that  died  for  love ! 
Sons  now  beheld  their  ancient  sires  again ; 
And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain ! 

But  whence  that  sigh  ?     'T  was  from  a  heart 
that  broke ! 
And  whence  that  voice  ?  As  from  the  grave  it  spoke  ! 
And  who,  as  unresolved  the  feast  to  share, 
Sits  half-withdrawn  in  faded  splendour  there  ? 
'T  is  he  of  yore,  the  warrior  and  the  sage, 
Whose  lips  have  moved  in  prayer  from  age  to  age  ; 
Whose  eyes,  that  wandered  as  in  search  before. 
Now  on  Columbus  fixed — to  search  no  more ! 
Cazziva,  gifted  in  his  day  to  know 
The  gathering  signs  of  a  long  night  of  woe  • 
Gifted  by  Those  who  give  but  to  enslave  ; 
No  rest  in  death,  no  refuge  in  the  grave ! 
— With  sudden  spring  as  at  the  shout  of  war. 
He  flies  !  and,  turning  in  his  flight,  from  far 
Glares  thro'  the  gloom  like  some  portentous  star ! 

*  p.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  5. 


322  THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS. 

Unseen,  unheard!  .Hence,  Minister  of  111 ! 
Hence,  't  is  not  yet  the  hour!  tho'  come  it  will ! 
They  that  foretold — too  soon  shall  they  fulfil ; 
When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep, 
And  deeds  are  done  that  make  the  Angels  weep ! 
Hark,  o'er  the  busy  mead  the  shell  proclaims* 
Triumphs,  and  masques,  and  high  heroic  games. 
And  now  the  old  sit  round ;  and  now  the  young 
Climb  the  green  boughs,  the  murmuring  doves  among. 
Who  claims  the  prize,  when  winged  feet  contend  ; 
When  twanging  bows  the  flaming  arrows  send  ?t 
Who  stands  self-centred  in  the  field  of  fame, 
And,  grappling,  flings  to  earth  a  giant's  frame  ? , 
Whilst  all,  with  anxious  hearts  and  eager  eyes, 
Bend  as  he  bends,  and,  as  he  rises,  rise ! 
And  Cora's  self,  in  pride  of  beauty  here, 
Trembles  with  grief  and  joy,  and  hope  and  fear  ! 
(She  who,  the  fairest,  ever  flew  the  first, 
With  cup  of  balm  to  quench  his  burning  thirst; 
Knelt  at  his  head,  her  fan-leaf  in  her  hand, 
And  hummed  the  air  that  pleased  him,  while  she 

fanned) 
How  blest  his  lot! — tho',  by  the  Muse  unsung. 
His  name  shall  perish,  when  his  knell  is  rung. 

That  night,  transported,  with  a  sigh  I  said, 
"  'T  is  all  a  dream  !  " — Now,  like  a  dream,  't  is  fled ; 
And  many  and  many  a  year  has  passed  away, 
And  I  alone  remain  to  watch  and  pray ! 
Yet  oft  in  darkness,  on  my  bed  of  straw. 
Oft  I  awake  and  think  on  what  I  saw ! 
The  groves,  the  birds,  the  youths,  the  nymphs  recall. 
And  Cora,  loveliest,  sweetest  of  them  all ! 

*  p.  Martyr,  dec.  iii.  c.  7.  \  Rochefort,  c.  xx.  , 


THE    YOTAGB    OF    COLUMBUS.  323 

CANTO  XII. 

A   Vision. 

Still  would  I  speak  of  Him  before  I  went, 

Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent, 

And,  dying,  left  a  world  his  monument ; 

Still,  if  the  time  allowed!     My  Hour  draws  near  ; 

But  He  will  prompt  me  when  I  faint  with  fear. 

.  .  .  Alas,  He  hears  me  not!  He  cannot  hear! 
****** 

****** 

Twice  the  Moon  filled  her  silver  urn  with  light. 
Then  from  the  Throne  an  Angel  winged  his  flight ; 
He,  who  unfixed  the  compass,  and  assigned 
O'er  the  wild  waves  a  pathway  to  the  wind  ; 
Who,  while  approached  by  none  but  Spirits  pure. 
Wrought,  in  his  progress  thro'  the  dread  obscure, 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow — that  shall  endure ! 

As  he  descended  thro'  the  upper  air. 
Day  broke  on  day  as  God  himself  were  there  ! 
Before  the  great  Discoverer,  laid  to  rest, 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addressed  : 
"  The  wind  recalls  thee  ;  its  still  voice  obey. 
Millions  await  thy  coming  ;  hence,  away. 
To  thee  blest  tidings  of  great  joy  consigned. 
Another  Nature,  and  a  new  Mankind  I 
The  vain  to  dream,  the  wise  to  doubt  shall  cease  ; 
Young  men  be  glad,  and  old  depart  in  peace !  * 
Hence  1  tho'  assembling  in  the  fields  of  air, 
Now,  in  a  night  of  clouds,  thy  Foes  prepare 
To  rock  the  globe  with  elemental  wars. 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars ; 

*  p.  Martyr,  Epist  133,  152. 


324  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

To  bid  the  meek  repine,  the  valiant  weep, 
And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep! 

"Not  then  to  leave  Thee!  to  their  vengeance 
cast. 
Thy  heart  their  aliment,  their  dire  repast !  * 

To  other  eyes  shall  Mexico  unfold 
Her  feathered  tapestries,  and  roofs  of  gold. 
To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried, 
Shall  the  Pacific  roll  his  ample  tide  ; 
There  destined  soon  rich  argosies  to  ride. 
Chains  thy  reward !  beyond  the  Atlantic  wave 
Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave ! 
Thy  reverend  form  to  time  and  grief  a  prey, 
A  phantom  wandering  in  the  light  of  day ! 

"What  tho'  thy  grey  hairs  to  the  dust  descend, 
Their  scent  shall  track  thee,  track  thee  to  the  end  ;f 
Thy  sons  reproached  with  their  great  father's  fame, 
And  on  his  world  inscribed  another's  name  ! 
That  world  a  prison-house,  full  of  sights  of  woe, 
Where  groans  burst  forth,  and  tears  in  torrents  flow! 
These  gardens  of  the  sun,  sacred  to  song, 
By  dogs  of  carnage  howling  loud  and  long, 
Swept — till  the  voj^ager,  in  the  desert  air, 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there ! 

t 

"  Not  thine  the  olive,  but  the  sword  to  bring, 
Not  peace,  but  war!     Yet  from  these  shores  shall 
spring 

*  See  the  Eumenides  of  JBJschylus,  v.  305,  &c. 
f  See  the  Eumenides  of  ^schylus,  v.  246. 


THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS.  325 

Peace  without  end  ;  *  from  these  with  blood  defiled, 
Spread  the  pure  spirit  of  thy  Master  mild! 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend, 
Arts  to  adorn,  and  arms  but  to  defend. 
Assembling  here,  all  nations  shall  be  blest ; 
The  sad  be  comforted  ;  the  weary  rest ; 
Untouched  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave ; 
.    And  He  shall  rule  the  world  he  died  to  save ! 

"Hence,  and  rejoice.    The  glorious  work  is  done. 
A  spark  is  thrown  that  shall  eclipse  the  sun ! 
And,  tho'  bad  men  shall  long  thy  course  pursue, 
As  erst  the  ravening  brood  o'er  chaos  flew,f 
He,  whom  I  serve,  shall  vindicate  his  reign  ; 
The  spoiler  spoiled  of  all ;  the  slayer  slain  ; 
Tlie  tyrant's  self,  oppressing  and  opprest, 
Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  unblest ; 
While  to  the  starry  sphere  thy  name  shall  rise, 
(Not  there  unsung  thy  generous  enterprise !) 

Thine  in  all  hearts  to  dwell — by  Fame  enshrined, 
With  those,  the  Few,  that  live  but  for  Mankind  ; 
Thine  evermore,  transcendant  happiness  ! 
World  beyond  world  to  visit  and  to  bless." 

On  the  last  two  leaves,  and  written  in  another  hand, 
are  some  stanzas  in  the  romance  or  ballad  measure  of 
the  Spaniards.  The  subject  is  an  adventure  soon  related. 

Thy  lonely  watch-tower,  Larenille, 
Had  lost  the  western  sun  ; 
And  loud  and  long  from  hill  to  hill 
Echoed  the  evening-gun, 

*  See  Washington's  farewell  address  to  his  fellow-citizens, 
f  See  Paradise  Lost,  X. 


326  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

When  Hernan,  rising  on  his  oar, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  shore. 

— "Those  lights  are  on  St.  Mary's  Isle  ; 

They  glimmer  from  the  sacred  pile."* 

The  waves  were  rough,  the  hour  was  late, 

But  soon  across  the  Tinto  borne, 

Thrice  he  blew  the  signal-horn, 

He  blew  and  would  not  wait, 

Home  by  his  dangerous  path  he  went ; 

Leaving,  in  rich  habiliment, 

Two  Strangers  at  the  Convent-gate. 

They  ascended  by  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rock  ;  and, 
having  asked  for  admittance,  were  lodged  there. 

Brothers  in  arms  the  Guests  appeared  ; 
The  Youngest  with  a  Princely  grace! 
Short  and  sable  was  his  beard. 
Thoughtful  and  wan  his  face. 
His  velvet  cap  a  medal  bore, 
And  ermine  fringed  his  broidered  vest ; 
And,  ever  sparkling  on  his  breast, 
An  image  of  St.  John  he  wore.f 

The  Eldest  had  a  rougher  aspect,  and  there  was  craft 
in  his  eye.  He  stood  a  little  behind  in  a  long  black 
mantle,  his  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword ;  and 
his  white  hat  and  white  shoes  glittered  in  the  moon- 
shine. J 

*  The  convent  of  La  Eabida. 

f  See  Bernal  Diez,  c.  203  ;  and  also  a  well-known  portrait  of  Cortes,  ascribed 
to  Titian.     Cortes  was  now  in  the  43rd,  Pizarro  in  the  50th  year  of  his  ago. 
X  A.ugu8tin  Zarate,  lib.  iv.  c.  9. 


THE  VOYAGE  OP  COLUMBUS.         327 

"Not  here  unwelcome,  tho'  unknown. 
Enter  and  rest!"'  the  Friar  said. 
The  moon  that  thro'  the  portal  shone, 
Shone  on  his  reverend  head. 
Thro'  many  a  court  and  gallery  dim 
Slowly  he  led  the  burial-hymn. 
Swelling  from  the  distant  choir. 
But  now  the  holy  men  retire  ; 
The  arched  cloisters  issuing  thro', 
In  long,  long  order,  two  and  two. 

When  other  sounds  had  died  awav, 

And  the  waves  were  heard  alone, 

They  entered,  tho'  unused  to  pray, 

Where  God  was  worshipped  night  and  day,. 

And  the  dead  knelt  round  in  stone  ; 

They  entered,  and  from  aisle  to  aisle 

W^andered  with  folded  arms  awhile. 

Where  on  his  altar-tomb  reclined 

The  crosiered  abbot;  and  the  knight 

In  harness  for  the  Christian  fight, 

His  hands  in  supplication  joined  ; — 

Then  said  as  in  a  solemn  mood, 

"  Now  stand  we  where  Columbus  stood  !  " 

*  -H-  w  -X-  *  * 

"Perez,*  thou  good  old  man,"  they  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  in  thy  place  of  rest? — 
Though  in  the  western  world  His  grave, f 
That  other  world,  the  gift  He  gave,  J 

*  Late  Superior  of  the  House. 

f  la  the  chancel  of  tho  cathedral  of  St.  Domingo. 

J  The  words  of  the  epitaph.     "  A  Gastilia  j  a  Leon  nuevo  Mundo  die  Colon." 


328  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Would  ye  were  sleeping  side  by  side ! 
Of  all  his  friends  He  loved  thee  best." 

*****  -x- 

****** 

The  supper  in  the  chamber  done, 
Much  of  a  Southern  Sea  they  spake, 
And  of  that  glorious  city*  won 
Near  the  setting  of  the  Sun, 
Throned  in  a  silver  lake  ; 
Of  seven  kings  in  chains  of  goldf 
And  deeds  of  death  by  tongue  untold, 
Deeds  such  as  breathed  in  secret  there 
Had  shaken  the  Confession-chair ! 

The  Eldest  swore  by  our  Lady,  J  the  Youngest  by  his 
conscience  ;§  while  the  Franciscan,  sitting  by  in  his  grey 
habit,  turned  away  and  crossed  himself  again  and  again. 
"Here  is  a  little  book,"  said  he  at  last,  "the  work  of 
him  in  his  shroud  below.  Tt  tells  of  things  you  have 
mentioned ;  and,  were  Cortes  and  Pizarro  here,  it 
might  perhaps  make  them  reflect  for  a  moment."  The 
Youngest  smiled  as  he  took  it  into  his  hand.  He  read 
it  aloud  to  his  companion  with  an  unfaltering  voice  ; 
but,  when  he  laid  it  down,  a  silence  ensued  ;  nor  was 
he  seen  to  smile  again  that  night. ||  "The  curse  is 
heavy,"  said  he  at  parting,  "but  Cortes  may  live  to 
disappoint  it." — "Ay,  and  Pizarro  too!" 

*  Mexico. 

f  Afterwards  the  arms  of  Cortes  and  his  descendants. 

X  Fernandez,  lib.  ii.  c.  63.  §  B.  Diaz,  c.  203. 

II  "  After  the  death  of  Giiatimotzin,"  says  B.  Diaz,  "ho  became  gloomy  and 
restless  ;  rising  continually  from  his  bed,  and  wandering  about  in  the  darlt:." — 
"Nothing  prospered  with  him;  and  it  was  ascribed  to  the  curses  he  was  loaded 
with." 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  329 

*^*  A  circumstance,  recorded  by  Herrera,  renders 
this  visit  not  improbable.  "In  May,  1528,  Cortes 
arrived  unexpectedly  at  Palos  ;  and,  soon  after  he  had 
landed,  he  and  Pizarro  met  and  rejoiced  ;  and  it  was 
remarkable  that  they  should  meet,  as  they  were  two  of 
the  most  renowned  men  in  the  world."  B.  Diaz  makes 
no  mention  of  the  interview ;  but,  relating  an  occur- 
rence that  took  place  at  this  time  in  Palos,  says,  "  that 
Cortes  was  now  absent  at  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Rabida." 
The  convent  is  within  half  a  league  of  the  town. 


330  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ODE  TO    SUPERSTITION* 

I.  1. 
Hence,  to  the  realms  of  Night,  dire  Demon,  hencei 

Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 

That  little  world,  the  human  mind, 
And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 

Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar, 

Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore. 

With  flashing  fury  bid  his  eye-balls  shine  ; 

Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine! 

Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch  has  steeled  the 
breast, 

Whence,  thro'  her  April-shower,  soft  Pity  smiled ; 

Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  blessed, 

To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child.f 

At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep. 
At  thy  command  exults,  tho'  Nature  bids  him  weep ! 

I.  2. 

When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth,  J 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high, 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sky, 

And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth. 

*  Written  in  1785.  f  The  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia. 

jj.  Lucretius,  I.  63. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  331 

Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 
Ha !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell, 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell ! 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb, 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by ; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom. 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  vulgar  eye : 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm. 
And,  thro'  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his  form, 

I.   3. 

O'er  solid  seas,  where  Winter  reigns, 
And  holds  each  mountain-wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 
.     By  glistening  star-light,  thro'  the  snow. 

Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 
Each  potent  spell  thou  bad'st  him  know. 
By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands. 
Full  in  the  sun  the  Bramin  stands  ; 
And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 
To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream, 
His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 
Smit  by  the  scorching  of  the  noontide  beam. 
Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,* 
Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest : 
She  hurls  the  torch !  she  fans  the  fire ! 
To  die  is  to  be  blest : 
She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more, 
And,  sighing,  sinks !  but  sinks  to  soar. 

*  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 


332  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O'erskadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast, 

The  Sisters  sail  in  dusky  state,* 

And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 

Weave  tlie  airj  web  of  Fate  ; 

"While  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,f 

Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral 

train. 

II.  1. 

Thou  spak'st,  and  lo !  a  new  creation  glowed. 

Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 

Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own, 

And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bowed. 

Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 

Grasped  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 

Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  Lord  of  Light 

Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  its  golden  height. 

The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers,  J 

Springs  from  its  parent  earth,  and  shakes  the 

spheres  ; 

The  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers. 

And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 

Sweet  Music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind ; 

And  bright-eyed  Painting  stamps  the  image  of 

the  mind. 

II.  2. 

Round  the  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise ! 
A  timbrelled  anthem  swells  the  gale, 
And  bids  the  God  of  Thunders  hail ;  § 

With  lowings  loud  the  captive  God  replies. 
Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smile, 
Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile !  || 

*  The  Fates  of  the  Northern  Mythology.     See  Mallet's  Antiquities. 
f  An  allusion  to  the  Second  Sight.  :j:  .-En.  IL  172,  &c. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  333 

But  ah  !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee  ?  * 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land  !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore, 
Locked  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?  f 
What    eye    those   long,    long    labyrinths   dare 

explore,  J 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight ; 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charmed  with  perennial  sweets  and  smiling  at  decay? 

n.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright  § 
With  purple  ether's  liquid  light. 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  Magi  gaze 

On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire  ; 

Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze 

Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 

But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 

From  Delphi's  venerable  shade? 

The  temple  rocks,  the  laurel  waves ! 

"  The  God  !  the  God  ! "  the  Sibyl  cries.|| 

Her  figure  swells  !  she  foams,  she  raves  ! 
Her  figure  swells  to  more  than  mortal  size ! 

Streams  of  rapture  roll  along, 

Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies  : 
Wake,  Echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song. 
Oh  catch  it,  ere  it  dies ! 

*  According  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  difficult  in  Egypt  to  find  a  god 
than  a  man. 

f  The  Hieroglyphics.  :j:  The  Catacombs. 

§  "The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "have  no  temples,  altars,  or  statues.  They 
sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains."    L  131. 

I  ^n.  VI.  46,  &c. 


334  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  Sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 
In  vain  she  checks  the  God's  control ; 
His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul, 
Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
The  cavern  frowns  ]  its  hundred  mouths  unclose ! 
And,  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire  flows! 

in.  1. 

Mona,  thy  druid-rites  awake  the  dead ! 
Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 
Even  whisper  to  the  idle  air  ; 
Rites  that  have  chained  old  Ocean  on  his  bed. 
Shivered  by  thy  piercing  glance. 
Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  the  imperial  eagle  fly.* 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 
Hark,  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string ! 
At  every  pause  dread  Silence  hovers  o'er  : 
While  murky  Night  sails  round  on  raven-wing, 
Deepening  the  tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's  roar  ^ 
Chased  by  the  Morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow. 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowled  on  the  black  wavp 
below. 

m.  2. 

Lo,  steel-clad  War  his  gorgeous  standard  rears ! 

The  red-cross  squadrons  madly  rage,f 

And  mow  thro'  infancy  and  age  ; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

*  See  Tacitus,  1.  xiv.  c.  29. 

f  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and  sack  of  Jerusalem  in  th« 
last  year  of  the  eleventh  century.     Matth.  Paris,  IV.  2. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  335 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day, 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away; 
In  cloistered  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs, 
While  from  each  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear  with  what  heart-felt  beat,  the  midnight  bell 
Swings  its  slow  summons  thro'  the  hollow  pile ! 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight-cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle  ; 
With  choral  chantings  vainly  to  aspire 
Beyond  this  nether  sphere,  on  Rapture's  wing  of  fire.. 


m.  3. 

Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel, 
Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 

Faith  lifts  the  soul  above  this  little  ball! 
While  gleams  of  glory  open  round, 
And  circling  choirs  of  angels  call, 
Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crowned, 
Hope  to  obscure  that  latent  spark, 
Destined  to  shine  when  suns  are  dark  ? 
Thy  triumphs  cease!  thro'  every  land. 
Hark  !  Truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease  ! 
Her  heavenly  form,  with  glowing  hand, 

Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 
Flushed  with  youth,  her  looks  impart 

Each  fine  feeling  as  it  flows  ; 
Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 

Pure  as  the  mountain  snows  : 
Celestial  transports  round  her  play, 
And  softly,  sweetly  die  away. 


336  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

She  smiles !  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 
That  blackened  o'er  thy  baleful  reign  ? 
Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud, 
Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 
Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above, 
And  lo !  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love. 


WEITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN   BY  MRS.   SIDDONS.* 

Yes,  't  is  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain ; 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world  ;  no  seraph  yet ! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
Where  I  died  last — by  poison  or  the  sword  ; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night, 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Called  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone ; 
A  very  woman — scarce  restrains  her  own ! 
Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assigned  ? 
Ah,  no  !  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  Art ; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart ! 

But,  Ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress,  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect. 
Know  every  Woman  studies  stage-effect. 

*  After  a  Tragedy,  performed  for  her  benefit,  at  the  Theatre  Royal  ia  Drurv-lane, 
April  27,  1795. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


33V 


She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  Instinct  teaches,  or  as  Humour  wills  ; 
And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama,  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  swells, 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells  ! 
To  play  in  pantomine  is  then  the  rage, 
Along  the  carpet's  many-coloured  stage  ; 
Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavour. 
Now  here,  now  there, — in  noise  and  mischief  ^ver  ! 

A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers, 
And  mimics  father's  gout  and  mother's  vapours  ; 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances ; 
Plaj^ful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances  ; 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes, 
And  whispers  all  she  hears  to  all  she  knows  ; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions  ! 
— Till  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places  : 
And  with  blue,  laughing  ej^es,  behind  her  fan. 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  Man. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies  ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice  ; 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdains, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chained ! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  Wife, 
With  all  the  dear,  distracting  cares  of  life ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave, 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive  ; 


338  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 

Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire, 
With  nightly  blaze  set  Portland-place  on  fire  ; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  Concert,  Opera,  Ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  tho'  seen  by  all ; 
And,  when  her  shattered  nerves  forbid  to  roam, 
In  very  spleen — rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last  the  grey  Dowager,  in  ancient  flounces, 
"With  snuff  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces  ; 
Boasts  how  the  Sires  of  this  deg-enerate  Isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duelled  for  a  smile. 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal ; 
With  modern  Belles  eternal  warfare  wages. 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamour  from  their  cages ; 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all, 
Like  some  old  Ruin,  "nodding  to  its  fall!"' 

Thus  Woman  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit ; 
Not  least  an  actress  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  Nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chained  down  by  coward  Art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 
— And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  the  stage — thro'  every  shifting  scene. 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired  ? 
Thus  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings, 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  339 

To  jou,  unchecked,  each  genuine  feeling  flows  ; 
For  all  that  life  endears — to  you  she  owes. 


TO  THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  *  *. 

Ah!  why  with  tell-tale  tongue  reveal 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal?* 
"Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph-sweetness  of  her  face  ? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer  ; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes  ; 
And  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
— Trace  all  the  mother  in  the  child  ! 


FROM  AN  ITALIAN   SONNET. 

Love,  under  Friendship's  vesture  white, 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing; 
And  oft  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite, 
Like  pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight. 
Smiles* thro'  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  Rage  the  God  appears  ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame! — 
Frowning  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
'T  is  Love  ;  and  Love  is  still  the  same. 

*  Alluding  to  some  verses  which  she  had  written  on  an  elder  sister. 


340  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

WEITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBEE. 

17  9  3. 

There,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtained  round, 
Worn  to  a  shade,  and  wan  with,  slow  decay, 
A  father  sleeps !     Oh  hushed  be  every  sound! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hours  away ! 

He  stirs — yet  still  he  sleeps.     May  heavenly 
dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise  ; 
Nor  fly,  till  morning  thro'  the  shutter  streams, 
And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rush-light  dies. 
****** 


TO  THE   GNAT. 

Wheist  by  the  green-wood  side,  at  summer  eve, 

Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye ; 

And  fairy-scenes,  that  fancy  loves  to  weave. 

Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy; 

'T  is  thine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 

Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  delight, 

Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away, 

And  all  is  Solitude,  and  all  is  Night ! 

— Ah  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 

Unsheaths  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air ! 

No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply 

Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 

Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings, 

Thy  dragon-scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 

Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings ! 

— I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  341 

AN  EPITAPH  ON  A  ROBIN  RED-BREAST  * 

Tread  lightly  here,  for  here,  't  is  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hushed  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground, 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast. 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
— Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green. 
Or  school-boy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 
But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 


AN  INSCRIPTION   FOR   STRATFIELD   SAYE. 

These  are  the  groves  a  grateful  people  gave 
For  noblest  service  ;  and  from  age  to  age; 
May  they,  to  such  as  come  with  listening  ear, 
Relate  the  story !     Sacred  is  their  shade  ; 
Sacred  the  calm  they  breathe — oh,  how  unlike 
What  in  the  field  't  was  his  so  long  to  know  ; 
Where  many  a  mournful,  many  an  anxious  thought, 
Troubling,  perplexing,  on  his  weary  mind 
Preyed,  ere  to  arms  the  morning-trumpet  called  : 
Where,  till  the  work  was  done  and  darkness  fell. 
Blood  ran  like  water,  and,  go  where  thou  wouldst, 
Death  in  thy  path-way  met  thee,  face  to  face. 

*  Inscribed  on  an  urn  in  the  flower-garden  at  Ilafod. 


342  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

For  on,  regardless  of  himself,  He  went, 
And,  by  no  change  elated  or  depressed, 
Fought,  till  he  won  the'  imperishable  wreath. 
Leading  the  conquerors  captive  ;  on  he  went. 
Bating  nor  heart  nor  hope,  wbo'er  opposed  ; 
The  greatest  warriors,  in  their  turn,  appearing  ; 
The  last  that  came,  the  greatest  of  them  all — 
One  scattering  fear,  as  born  but  to  subdue, 
And,  even  in  rout,  in  ruin,  scattering  fear  ; 
So  long,  till  warred  on  by  the  elements, 
Invincible  ;  the  mightiest  of  the  earth  ! 

When  such  the  service,  what  the  recompence? 
What  was  not  due  to  him  if  he  survived  ? 
Yet,  if  I  err  not,  a  renown  as  fair. 
And  fairer  still,  awaited  him  at  home  ] 
When  in  his  place,  day  after  day  he  stood. 
The  party-zeal,  that  round  him  raged,  restraining, 
— His  not  to  rest,  while  his  the  strength  to  serve. 


REFLECTIONS. 

• 

Man  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward  child  ; 

So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what  may. 

And  to  the  present  so  insensible ! 

Oh,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he  would. 

Years  would  as  days  and  hours  as  moments  be 

He  would,  so  restless  in  his  spirit  here, 

Grive  wings  to  TimC;  and  wish  his  life  away ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  343 

Alas,  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own, 

Oft  are  the  greatest  talents  to  be  found 

In  a  fool's  keeping.     For  what  else  is  he, 

What  else  is  he,  however  worldly  wise, 

Who  can  perv^ert  and  to  the  worst  abuse 

The  noblest  means  to  serve  the  noblest  ends ; 

Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  eloquence, 

That  sacred  gift,  to  dazzle  and  delude  ; 

Or,  if  achievement  in  the  field  be  his. 

Climb  but  to  gain  a  loss,  suffering  how  much. 

And  how  much  more  inflicting  !     Everj^where, 

Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks  are  plaj^ed ; 

And  hence  the  turmoil  in  this  world  of  ours. 

The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  beginning. 

The  wailing  and  the  tears. — When  Ci^sar  came. 

He  who  could  master  all  men  but  himself, 

Who  did  so  much  and  could  so  well  record  it ; 

Even  he,  the  most  applauded  in  his  part. 

Who,  when  he  spoke,  all  things  summed  up  in  him, 

Spoke  to  convince,  nor  ever,  when  he  fought, 

Fought  but  to  conquer — what  a  life  was  his, 

Slaying  so  many,  to  be  slain  at  last,* 

A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil. 

And  all  to  gain  what  is  far  better  missed ! 

The  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than  the  schools  ; 
And  well  they  may.     All  that  is  great  in  thought. 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric  fire. 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Comes  from  the  heart ;  and  who  confesses  not 
Its  voice  is  sacred,  nay  almost  divine, 
When  inly  it  declares  on  what  we  do. 


344  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Blaming,  approving?     Let  an  erring  world 
Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while  we  stand 
Acquitted  there  ;  and  oft,  when  clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track  appears, 
Oft  is  an  upright  heart  the  surest  guide, 
Surer  and  better  than  the  subtless  head  ; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  thro'  the  dark 
Onward  and  onward  leading. 

This  Child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub-like, 

(No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of  heavens) 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse  ?  must  Passion  come, 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes, 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so  pure  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     For  who,  alas  !  has  lived, 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  recalled 

Words  he  had  wished  unsaid  and  deeds  undone  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     But  if,  as  we  may  hope, 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipline  his  mind, 

And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheerfully, 

Assisting  them  that  faint,  weak  though  he  be, 

And  in  his  trying  hours  trusting  in  God — 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still ; 

For  what  was  Innocence  will  then  be  Virtue. 


Oh,  if  the  selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost, 
What  would  they  not  endeavour,  not  endure, 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay, 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power  employs 
In  making  others  happy ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  345 

WEITTEN  AT  DROPMOEE, 
July,  1831. 

G-RENViLLE,  to  thee  my  gratitude  is  due 

For  many  an  hour  of  studious  musing  here, 

For  many  a  day-dream,  such  as  hovered  round 

Hafiz  or  Sadi ;  thro'  the  golden  East, 

Search  where  we  would,  no  fairer  bowers  than  these. 

Thine  owii  creation ;  where,  called  forth  by  thee, 

"Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  with  rich  inlay, 

Broider  the  ground,"  and  every  mountain-pine 

Elsewhere  unseen  (his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 

His  kindred  sweeping  with  majestic  march 

From  cliff  to  cliff  along  the  snowy  ridge 

Of  Caucasus,  or  nearer  yet  the  Moon) 

Breathes  heavenlv  music. — Yet  much  more  I  owe 

For  what  so  few,  alas!  can  hope  to  share, 

Thy  converse  ;  when  among  thy  books  reclined, 

Or  in  thy  garden  chair  that  wheels  its  course 

Slowly  and  silently  thro'  sun  and  shade. 

Thou  speak'st,  as  ever  thou  art  wont  to  do, 

In  the  calm  temper  of  philosophy  ; 

— Still  to  delight,  instruct,  whate'er  the  theme. 


WRITTEN  IN  JULY, 
1834. 

Gret,  thou  hast  served,  and  well,  the  sacred  Cause 
That  Hampden,  Sydney  died  for.    Thou  hast  stood, 
Scorning  all  thought  of  Self,  from  first  to  last. 
Among  the  foremost  in  that  glorious  field  ; 


346 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


From  first  to  last ;  and,  ardent  as  thou  art, 
Held  on  with  equal  step  as  best  became 
A  loft  J  mind,  loftiest  when  most  assailed  ; 
Never,  though  galled  by  many  a  barbed  shaft, 
By  many  a  bitter  taunt  from  friend  and  foe. 
Swerving,  or  shrinking.     Happy  in  thy  Youth, 
Thy  Youth  the  dawn  of  a  long  summer-day ; 
But  in  thy  Age  still  happier ;  thine  to  earn 
The  gratitude  of  millions  yet  to  be  ; 
Thine  to  conduct,  through  ways  how  difficult, 
A  mighty  people  in  their  march  sublime 
From  Good  to  Better.     Great  thy  recompence, 
When  in  their  eyes  thou  read'st  what  thou  hast 

done  ; 
And  may'st  thou  long  enjoy  it ;  may'st  thou  long 
Preserve  for  them  what  still  they  claim  as  theirs, 
That  generous  fervour  and  pure  eloquence, 
Thine  from  thy  birth  and  Nature's  noblest  gifts, 
To  guard  what  They  have  gained ! 


WRITTEN   IN   1834. 

Well,  when  her  dav  is  over,  be  it  said 
That,  though  a  speck  on  the  terrestrial  globe. 
Found  with  long  search  and  in  a  moment  lost. 
She  made  herself  a  name — a  name  to  live 
While  science,  eloquence,  and  song  divine, 
And  wisdom,  in  self-government  displayed, 
And  valour,  such  as  only  in  the  Free, 
Shall  among  men  be  honoured. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  347 

Every  sea 
Was  covered  with  her  sails,  in  every  port 
Her  language  spoken  ;  and,  where'er  you  went, 
Exploring,  to  the  east,  or  to  the  west. 
Even  to  the  rising  or  the  setting  day, 
Her  arts  and  laws  and  institutes  were  there, 
Moving  with  silent  and  majestic  march, 
Onward  and  onward,  where  no  pathway  was  ; 
There  her  adventurous  sons,  like  those  of  old, 
Founding  vast  empires* — empires  in  their  turn 
Destined  to  shine  thro'  many  a  distant  age 
With  sun-like  splendour. 

Wondrous  was  her  wealth. 
The  world  itself  her  willing  tributary; 
Yet,  to  accomplish  what  her  soul  desired, 
All  was  as  nothing ;  and  the  mightiest  kings, 
Each  in  his  hour  of  strife  exhausted,  fallen, 
Drew  strength  from  Her,  their  coffers  from  her  own 
Filled  to  overflowing.     Wlien  her  fleets  of  war 
Had  swept  the  main  ;  when  not  an  adverse  prow, 
From  pole  to  pole,  far  as  the  sea-bird  flies, 
Ruffled  the  tide  ;  and  they  themselves  were  gone, 
Grone  from  the  eyes  and  from  the  minds  of  men. 
Their  dreadful  errands  so  entirely  done — 
Up  rose  her  armies ;  on  the  land  they  stood. 


*  North  America  speaks  for  itself ;  and  so  indeed  may  we  say  of  India,  when 
such  a  territory  is  ours  in  a  region  so  remote — '•  a  territory  larger  and  more  popu- 
lous than  Great  Britain  and  France  and  Spain,  and  Germany  and  Italy  ogether;" 
when  a  company  of  merchants,  from  such  small  beginnings,  have  established  a 
dominion  so  absolute,  "where  Trajan  never  penetrated  and  where  the  phalanx  of 
Alexander  refused  to  proceed" — a  dominion  over  a  people  for  ages  civilized  and 
cultivated,  while  we  were  yet  in  the  woods. 


348  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Fearless,  erect ;  and  in  an  instant  smote 
Him  with  his  legions.* 

Yet  ere  long  't  was  hers, 
Great  as  her  triumphs,  to  eclipse  them  all, 
To  do  what  none  had  done,  none  had  conceived, 
An  act  how  glorious,  making  joy  in  heaven! 
When,  such  her  prodigality,  condemned 
To  toil  and  toil,  alas,  how  hopelessly. 
Herself  in  bonds,  for  ages  unredeemed-^ 
As  with  a  god-like  energy  she  sprung, 
All  else  forgot,  and,  burdened  as  she  was. 
Ransomed  the  African. 


*  Alluding  to  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  The  illustrious  Man  who  commanded 
there  on  our  side,  and  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  justice  to  others,  never  fails  to 
forget  himself,  said  many  years  afterwards  to  the  Author  with  some  agitation, 
when  relating  an  occurrence  of  that  day,  "  It  was  a  battle  of  giants!  " 


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